Underneath the witness to a mossy tomb.

They all died in the fire, onto the broken butchers knife. Cut in half the past. Drift away the ashes. To the fears of loneliness, under the devils spear.
Underneath the vultures wing. They cry to wish away everything.
Death to the dead, wings for the bees. Gusts of black are coming. Whistling through the trees.
The stones are in perfect aligns.
Underneath are those who rise and shine.
Death to the dead. Wings for the bees. Gusts of black are coming. Whistling through the trees.
Death to beyond hope.
Underneath this mossy tomb. Are the ones who died.
Alone in their room.