Growing Cold
The air grows cold
On the world, so old.
The taste of mould
On the wind, so cold.
The gods of old
Are still and cold,
Their faces grim
And covered in mould.
The winter, so cold,
Whispers secrets untold.
The gods, so bold,
Have froze in the cold.
A memory of old
Ferments like mould.
And all of the world
Grows cold, so cold...
The wind, so old,
Carries death, so cold,
Spreads disease
And feeds the mould.
An echo once told
A prophecy so bold
That all of the air
Became suddenly cold...
