The man sits from afar watching a silent march The only light seeps from
Out the eyes of the marching men, but it is not enough to light the path
Still they march, endlessly The man reaches his hands into the soil and
Finds a weak, glowing light

Under a dim lit sky shadows marched like statues
Darkness was coursing throughout their veins, and light shone from their
Eyes
And it was all they had, but it was not enough to light their way: A silent
March into awaiting graves

Turned my back against the night, toward the hope that there's a place
Where truth abides
For here we're left to wonder why we douse the flame and there is nothing
Left inside

We have become as the ravens; mighty in numbers and blocking out the
Sun the sun

And here my will could never contend: Is this not cold and bent?
And where does my volition fit in? Where?

Too weak to wade amongst the dead, too tired to stand amongst the rest

So face the sky and tell me how you gauge living in vain?
Show me the crooked and bent, the shape of contempt
Of contempt of contempt of contempt

We've buried the flame, but I contend to dig it up again