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Where has the daylight gone?
Where are the flowers?
Sardonic silence hides
eloquent monstrous lies.
Who has clad the Earth
in crimson red,
in Deianira’s robe?
Tenebrae factae sunt.
Buried dreams,
ideals in tombs
desire purification
and crave for resurrection.
Tenebrae! Fall on your face!
The barren Earth will soon give birth
to incorruptible flowers
nursed with its own blood.
Shadows with icy eyes,
insipid faces,
unfeeling stony hearts
tell you how to live.
They have built your house
with fear and wars,
with no windows or doors.

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