| In search of meager serenity
|
| Cunning demons ever striding
|
| My arsenal of spirits
|
| Shall haul me through the night
|
| In clouded visions, in distorted dreams
|
| I’m out in the open, driven to the brink
|
| As the dead hill comes into view
|
| There is nothing inbetween
|
| By the cruelty of nature
|
| By the madness of the sea
|
| She will settle for nothing less
|
| She will claim as she has given
|
| The Cormorant in the distance
|
| Blackwinged scout of Utrøst
|
| Standing tall, in lonely majesty
|
| Like an ill-boding totem
|
| Whispering birches
|
| Ancient soil of Suicide
|
| Across the field of thorns
|
| Tearing up my old sores
|
| Looking down that dismal road
|
| I shall never forget their faces
|
| So many a fellow lost
|
| Hanging from the gallows pole
|
| Strangely, still connected
|
| Bound by an ageless ritual
|
| The blood of the traitors
|
| Washed away with the morning tide
|
| The Dweller of the Threshold
|
| Reaching into his bag of tricks
|
| The song of the Yellow Jester
|
| An omen of the coming harvest
|
| A passage to the clearing unfolds
|
| Sacret stone formation
|
| The shadow of Ibex horns
|
| Appear before my weary feet
|
| Turning the familiar key
|
| Open the door to my interior places
|
| As howling winds go silent
|
| I surrender to my sanctity
|
| In the chamber of reflections
|
| Retracing my faltering steps
|
| Cheap Kalinka and kettle coffee
|
| Rid my heart of these overgrown burdens
|
| On the outside, the world is moving
|
| The same ugly ways as ever before
|
| Unbeknown to what resides beneath them
|
| And to what end their blood shall trickle
|
| The old, mounted trophies
|
| Are playing their games of mockery
|
| By the horned moon, breathing life
|
| Into these devious paintings
|
| Crafted by hands unknown
|
| Much too real, as if immersed
|
| Into a Dream within a Dream
|
| Cease to live through the broken shards
|
| Blackout is a gift from below |