歌词
Dusk, a primal vibrant red; violent.
Clouds, seeping color - the crows cry out war.
The plains, they tremble - anxious, the night brings blood.
The cold bitter night, awaiting flame and fury.
Swift like the night, the riders descend.
The braves circle around; torches to the night, arrows to the dawn.
The smoke marks an early grave, it rises with the sun.