An angel from heavens' most valuable forces
his wings are cut
wounded vagabond in the fields of the fallen
spreading his arms for help
But who's to lay a hand on him?
Who's to trust even the weakest of beings?
The field of flowers has become deserted, barren
and the gardener has become the drought.
The world of light has been drowned in darkness
and the light is brushed aside by infernal clouds.
Spreading his arms for help
I lay a hand on him
I shall take care of his wounds
weakly he whispers gratitude
