Welkin, last of the great immortals First of the hundred winds Shines on the wings of devils Carves out the mountain range Drowning in monsoon rains
In a forest of bone Lies a dead boy alone Pointing to a trail That will never lead home
Seraph, cold under trees Burning with grief Wanders a ghost Lost in a world of mortals
He calls to the first of the hundred winds Praying for forgiveness For a thousand sins Looking for the path Leading back to the road he followed
Carrier of souls Down long, lonesome roads Welkin, the first light of boys immortal Opens a holy portal Into the monsoon rains Into the mountain range And Seraph rides the winds On devil wings Overlooking a world of mortals
