Within the darkest hour 
When the dragon releases its power 
They feel the urge to meet 
To share and to intertwine. 

Beneath the leader of the horde 
Men and demons are sworn 
To kill and grant his grace 
They are reflections of the Devil's face. 

The night is young and fresh 
With a scent of macabre on its breath. 
Scattered they form a pattern 
To be seen from the sky. 

If crimson was your colour 
Could your conscience bear your soul 
Would you paint the space with murder 
Your spirit's breath so cool. 

They are cowards falling from their own grace 
Infiltrating penetrating with hate 
Rounding up marching into the womb 
Catatonic spending time in sin.