Prancing as the ravens dance in the woods,
Beseeching all that's pure to their mysterious good.
The lies of the past no longer exist here,
As the ravens dance in the day without a fear....
In front of the setting sun, their song has been sung.
Flying infront of the setting one until their wrong's undone.
They laugh as the tribes all chant, so very far below.
A great force of melancholy in the beauty of their foes.
Forged from the shadows, to soar infront of light.
These are the sentinels, the oracles of the night.
A constant reminder of mother nature's balance...
A life lived in the very meaning of their nonchalance...
The wisdomic ravens, they watch over us all.
Gods of the nighttime, and the sorrow of the squall.
The lives of the demented, reconciled in their eyes.
Their beauty meets no reproach, completely beyond surprise.