Shrine of The Crows - The Faithless Tune of Fireflies

Beneath the floorboards, the roots still hum, Drinking the faith of everyone. Each prayer a seed, each sin a bloom, Sung soft inside the unholy house. The pews are warped, the candles lean, The swamp remembers what it’s seen. The sermon’s gone, but the echoes stay, In voices carved from mud and clay. Low, child, low… the ground will keep you well, Under moss, bone, and bell. The worms don’t pray, they just consume, The choir hums the faithless tune of fireflies. A hand through the soil, slow and pale, Fingers ringed in rust and shale. The air’s too thick for the living to breathe, But the dead don’t mind what the dark believes. Each crow that lands hums the refrain, A note of marrow, a taste of rain. Every hymn that rots becomes perfume, Sweet decay in bloom. Low, child, low… the ground will keep you well, Under moss, bone, and bell. The worms don’t pray, they just consume, The choir hums the faithless tune of fireflies. The reeds all shiver like a choir in pain, Buzz of the swamp crawlin’ through my veins. Every step’s a ghost, every breath a loan, Every sound a hymn the wind disowns. There’s peace in the way the silence feeds, Where blood turns dark and the heart concedes. I lay down low in the current’s frame, Let it whisper my name Come down slow where the water sleeps, The earth has promises it keeps. No crown, no light, no costume, Just the hum of mosquitos in bloom. Now silence blossoms in sacred dirt, The roots have learned what faith is worth. The swamp’s alive, it breathes in tune, And hums for me… the faithless tune of fireflies. Low, child, low… the ground will keep you well, Under moss, bone, and bell. The worms don’t pray, they just consume, The choir hums the faithless tune of fireflies.