We walk upon the soaked carcasses of those who once gave us life.
Be it rain, wind of the weight of finality, the cadavers fall and fall.
Day light is meek, and the night grows long and cold.
Fungi lurch forward for a final gulping breath.
All is returned to the earth and the rain will fall and fall.

Rain will fall and fall.

It's the fury of the storm.
It's the endless falling rain.
It's the growing of the dark.
It's the thrive in decay.
It's the voice of woe.
It's the call of the moon.
It's the cold retribution of
the dark rider known as death.