The years has carved your skin,
ingrained your strides, burst your heart.
So near, but still too far to reach,
wooden arms would never feel beauty.

They just turned to gray in this longest fall.
Leaves you lost, cloak the path, that divided one heart.

Their shells will be our plunder,
(so) fall to break the season.
These are the last steps of our eldered kingdom,
winters cold chains the vital crown of grace.

Their marks has turned to dust,
born new and turn the soil to stone.
As centuries forgot our grief,
oath on our lips are the ivy around our neck.

Which carries the plague and spits it own beauty.
A loss of words, a dance in motionless.

See there, the pride is falling,
above from the roaring of the stars.
Two shells, but one heart.
Not envy could cover their love.

There we stand for aeons, rusted by the autumn sun.
Fall to understand, the death waits in our groves.

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