Within the darkest hour
When the dragon releases its power
They feel the urge to meet
Beneath the leader of the horde
Men and demons are sworn
To kill and grant his grace
They are reflections of the Master's face
The night is young and fresh
With a scent of macabre on its breath
Scattered they form a pattern
To be seen from the sky
If crimson was your colour
Could your conscience bear your soul
Would you paint the space with murder
Your spirit's breath so cool
They are cowards falling from their own grace
Infiltrating penetrating with hate
Rounding up marching into the womb
Catatonic spending time in sin