This thorn which dreapt of blood,
Sent for victims instead of love.
They came along one by one,
They held the thorn which drew their blood.
The ground they walked, was scarlet red,
And as they walked, they hung their head.
Their eyes rolled back,
Their faces white,
Sounds of murder echoed through the night.
In the morning, the sun drifted down,
And darkness filled the rotten town.
Only the hope of a rose in full bloom,
Will cure these people of this unknown gloom.
