The birds crow a weeping melody, trees clean of leaves

the smoke chokes the atmosphere, until even us can't breathe

I look upon the weary skies, the ones that fell so far

If only could this one last time I could see the stars

But the babies are all silent, the snow is blood ash-grey

The language that once taught us has nothing else to say

They tell us "sleep now, my child. Don't worry, it's not there"

They tell us "There's no monster under the bed, no need to be scared"

But they don't see what we all see, as the pin drops in deafening silence

Sure the monster isn't under the bed, It hasn't been there since

The day that we all turned fifteen, we've long known it was here

Until the smoke cloaks our sight until even we can't see what is near

So the birds crow a weeping melody, trees clean of leaves

but atleast the happy fools that brought us here think the air is clean

but everything is falling, as so does the weary skies

Holding our every breath, until even then it cannot help but cry