Towards the rich archaic heavens; towards the lack diorama
You are the artist of the texture
That plays with the mantle of the earth

When the bleakest of powders
Lie rooted to the starched stones
And roots that feed the peaking trees
Embrace the sleeping shores

Archaic pearls of sleep and death
The voice of December losing its breath
And the flower yard of white and grey is haunted

White as the down of flaking snow,
The heroic emblems of life

Green is the color of my death
As in winter-guise I swoop towards the ground
Green is the landscape of my sorrow filled passing

We are 'In Flames'
Towards the dead archaic heavens
We are the mantle and the texture
The alters the mantle of the earth