With the setting of the yellow globe,
Out will come the fallen angels of earth,
Uncurling their silver and blood wings,
On delicate paled flesh, tickling them crimson,
And in the moonlight the angels fell,
Their wings shining silver and crimson,
The whispers heard, 'blood on silver wings,'
The scarlet channels in the pale light,
In silence they walk desolate paths,
Their silver wings trailing along crimson roads,
Bleak the glow passed along their faces,
Letting the nights light fade to black,
With the waning of the moons path,
The channels increase, their scarlet waters free,
Running along deep in the pale fields,
'Blood on silver wings, passed by the white meadows,'
With the dawning of the sun will find,
The fallen bodies of the angels alone,
Their silver wings discarded to their sides,
The crimson liquid flowing freely around them all.
