Touch of the winds of further bleak pictures of the future.
And on our hands are set the marks of afterlife
For the ones, stumbling in the levee of daylight.

The ornate device of the Universe
Is more clearly seen and percepted
When the souls are being sewn by the threads
And when those threads have to be cut off.

Bleed, the breads
Bleed, the soil
Bleed, the feet.

Heralds of naught,
Heralds of flesh,
Heralds of above and below, and in-between.

Unexpected victims of lucid dreams,
Encountering the seeping astral fog.
Programming the future of the soul codes,
Rupturing the hymen of the elemental gifts,
Becoming an abyss between the waffs of their souls.

Ready to leave the prints of the bleeding
Slits of the bare foot in the graveyard soil.
Begging a single sign from Death`s angel
Among the swarm of the hundreds of hungry
Crossroad spirits which are about to get unchained,
But though fearing the ozone scent.

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