Exiled from spheres… Now locked in a frostroom Lurking in shapes… Of his abolished Greatness
Escaped through wounds… Unlocked are these chambers
All that remains between the gallows and God Is a century of dismay An epilogue which stammers its aporias Which locks itself in oblivion Only this disarrayed time, this cutting where our gaps are clustered All that remains… What has become of His traces? So many hollow basins Where stirs the broth of promises But nothing comes, the Empire is cancelled Only the ruins and their song of charms remain We cannot heal our wounds We can make them blades… Carve it as oaths in the face Of a growing, expanding void And dismiss this obese grimace Made of impavid futures…
From livid days to paraphs to counter the plots of the one‐eyed God The wounds are our churches but they do not sleep They have always breathed in the silence of dead skies In the great stale bladder that we hold as a cosmos When it is never anything but a monument to the deadTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.