Withered - Amorphis

Withered be the flower

Long past its prime and bloom

Forgotten on the stony bed

This silent hillside tomb

For coppered be the grip

Of this wooded land

A crude cold gauntlet

Hides the bony hand

Tears once warmed the ground

Torn out of eyes that could cry no more

Compassion for the wind to take

O doth pity the bastard poor

A life of misery and hate

Upon a chance, a twist of fate

The poison from the goblet ran

Down the throat of her drunken man

Withered be the flower

Long past its prime and bloom

Forgotten on the stony bed

This silent hillside tomb

For coppered be the grip

Of this wooded land

A crude cold gauntlet

Hides the bony hand