| Whispers of the void
|
| Guide us into the painted grey
|
| We’re tortured by solitude
|
| Oblation to the shrine
|
| Darkness flows through the rivers
|
| And my lungs are filled with water
|
| The abstract beauty of a moment
|
| Became my emperor of decay
|
| As the stars shine through the night
|
| Each breath reflects in the stream
|
| Pale blue moon, shimmering lights
|
| Cold and desolate, choking life
|
| There are cemeteries
|
| That I remember
|
| Graves
|
| Full of bones
|
| I do not make a sound
|
| My heart moving, it sits in a tunnel
|
| In it, darkness
|
| Like a shipwreck
|
| We died going into ourselves
|
| As all, we were drowning inside our hearts
|
| And so we lived, falling out of the swim
|
| Into the soul
|
| And there were corpses
|
| Feet made of cold and sticky clay
|
| Death
|
| Is inside the gallops
|
| Like a barking
|
| Where there are no dogs
|
| Coming out from dogs
|
| Somewhere
|
| From graves
|
| Somewhere
|
| Growing in the damp air
|
| Rank tears of venom
|
| Death arrives among all that sound
|
| Like a shoe with no foot in it
|
| Like a suit with no man in it
|
| Comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it
|
| With no finger in it
|
| Comes and shouts
|
| With no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat
|
| Nevertheless
|
| Its steps can be heard
|
| And its clothing
|
| Makes a harsh sound
|
| Like a train
|
| I’m not sure
|
| I understand only a little
|
| I can hardly see
|
| But it seems to me
|
| That its singing has the color
|
| Of damp violets
|
| Of violence
|
| Yellow at home
|
| In the earth
|
| Because the face of death is green
|
| And the milk death gives is green
|
| Like the penetrating darkness of a vile relief
|
| And the somber color of ambient winter |