Lyrics
A waning crescent
Through woven branches
Strange limbs reaching through the permafrost
Like hands from a shallow grave
In a clearing where the quiet makes its home
At the price of torment
In a shadow yet to be embraced by song
There's a choir steeped in ritual
The hollows of trees
The ground beneath graves
The whispers of winds
The depths of wells
The lull between waves
The darkness of attics
Where secretly silence had ceased to be silent