Lord Azmo July Of Crimson Sea
Birds with torn wings are the humans...
Flying too low and crashing down...
Chanters of autumns...
Callers of long winters...
Dismembering the wings...
Trying to wash away the blood...
That tainted our ancient flesh...
A dawn without sun...
A winter without coldness...
I raise my eyes to the skies
And whisper "...my July"
The heavens answer me
And rain blood over me
The color of night becomes crimson
And no grief on my wings
Sing from the tower of souls
And watch my spirit free
A shroud of winter appeared
...i saw her eyes
