In the cold embrace of an earthly Mother, As if a newborn corpse, lulled into eternal sleep, Confined to a wooden box – this my palace, Unconsecrated and void of souls…
We here, in vacancy of life, Marked by stone and sorrow, Do call from the inevitable blade of the scythe, For you to witness your soul's “tomorrow”.
Hark the chapel bells call dearly, Sole witness to your solemn demise, None could envision beyond so clearly, A secret hidden from living eyes.
Sworn (since birth) as an oracle of flesh, To crack the casket of death, When the rotten beckon from the space, Between Earth and stone….
….the secrets shall be known. But upon a quest for death's key, Rotten hands reach from below, From open hands, they beckon… Why must death be so slow…
The bereaved swarm in awe, In agony of mind, But free from the grip of grief, As witnesses to the passing, Are compelled into sorrow, By fear of mortality.
But upon a quest for death's key, Rotten hands reach from below, From open hands, they beckon… Why must death be so slow…Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
