Darkness closes about my body, My slumber's dream is set free Cold, clammy air surrounds my being In my return to reality
I find myself on a cold, wooden floor, With a dull ache in my bones The air about is black as a raven, The cold is that of a stone
My aching limbs are restrained from their stretch Manacled, and bound at the jaw The dismal mist has not yet cleared away, "Where am I at?" I must try to recall
My eyes are opened wide in their horror, I throw my hands to the skies And strike the lid of my eternal home, And scream the terror I've realized, I've been buried alive!
"As this awful conviction forced itself, thus, into the innermost chambers of my soul, I once again struggled to cry aloud. And in this second endeavor I succeeded. A long, wild, and continuous shriek, or yell of agony, resounded through the realms of the subterranean Night." - Edgar Allen Poe "The Premature Burial", 1844Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
