The fertile soil of poisoned hearts
Fed by tears and nighttime rain
Under Transylvanian moon
Grows the flower bred from pain
Death is pure - life is not
So ask yourself, what do you want?
As for me, well I want you
So pick the black rose and let its thorns cut you.
Fed by tears and nighttime rain
Under Transylvanian moon
Grows the flower bred from pain
Death is pure - life is not
So ask yourself, what do you want?
As for me, well I want you
So pick the black rose and let its thorns cut you.
