Letras:
Subtle The Crow

Those crows sicked, their starving wings on choking out the sun fall's sinking pinks... Surrounded by the wellwater black of near night and become, Those crows

: The dark crow man sits and stares into the oblivion into cold into nothingness; it's snowing in his mind. He's created himself in his own image. Lust

you speak would ease my pains and fears. The Crow looked down with the candy in his beak. Your poems of wisdom, my Good Crow, what a paradise they bring