• A scythe in his hand,
    Black clothes on his bones,
    They all misunderstand,
    Why his body arose.

    He is an angel of death,
    A demon of life,
    He is decadence himself,
    A spiritual device.

    He walks the earth,
    He walks it alone,
    Eventhough he cannot fly,
    Eventhough he is made of bone.

    He is the dying's savior,
    He is the living's fear,
    He is what you hate,
    He is what always draws near.

    His purpose is pure,
    His soul is clean,
    He creates the sleep,
    He creates the peace.

    His honorable course,
    Are never understood,
    But he still love you all,
    And create pain he never would.

    A scythe in his hand,
    Black clothes on his bones,
    They all misunderstand,
    Why his body arose...