I hear her like a whisper
through the falling rain,
her name is the storm,
the scream inside every
crack of deafening thunder.

And I got cold steel in my hand,
a list of names carved to the bone,
and my baby still speaks to me
before the pull of a heavy trigger.

No bullet can bring you back to me,
you're hunting nothing but ghosts
in endless rivers and dark valleys
and what hurts the most is that 
no bloody vengeance can set you free.

But she's only a whisper and even though
we don't owe the dead a damn thing,
her name is the same bone shaking scream
through the cold earth's torn seams,
every single bullet fired still
feels like a promise I'd die to keep.

And I've got a list of names 
carved into the soul,
cold steel marching on until
the names are all dead and gone.

She's still the core of everything,
the silver moonbeams illuminating
the endless barren land at night,
the violent firelight flickering,
dancing to always keep me warm.

And when I listen to the earth,
when I listen with my soul.

My baby is still calling out to me.

You don't owe the dead a damn thing,
hold those nights when were pressed close,
remember the way my heart would tremor,
the way it would begin to flutter and sing.

And I feel everything she was,
everything that we once were screams
through the cold earth that I roam
and even though the list of names 
is carved into the soul and bone
and every bullet fired almost promises
to finally softly call me back home.

No revenge can set a revenant free.

No revenge can bring her back to me.