There are no survivors from where I came.
The village is a fire, civilizations trapped in the flame.
The mark of death sketched across our swords,
Echoes the words of dying pain.
The clouds of war open, and pour blood in place of rain.
No more battlefield glory,
Instead they're traded for inner city stories
Of the youth being slain.
This is the home from where I came,
And the long road I travel back to the same.

everything that passes through my ears