Dead, the crows pick at my soul,
Darkened clouds are flying above,
Stench of death surrounding me,
But, still, I fight to come alive.

Hunted, haunted, I made my path,
But the hunters tracked me down,
So, their arrows had pierced my heart,
Now I lay on bleached, hot sand.

Thoughts of how my body dies,
Clinching to the hope or dream,
Of coming back to life in force,
To hunt the hunters who are alive.

Hear the crows and buzzards fly above,
Wanting flesh to devour my soul,
But, as long as a thread in me still lives,
Am I truly still laying dead?

Once more angels and devils resume,
To fight for my cold-hearted body,
But my spirit still lives on I know,
Because my mind still longs to live.