Screeming, and weeping gathering funerals, are staring into an infinity of a stargate slumber.

Who am I to pass the mirror?
Where do wolves cry?

The lake of sorrow swallowed by millenium darkwinds, and enchanted by grimm wizards, is sipping of a chalice raised by sweltering seas and twilight soils.

City of haunted souls.
Open your rising gates, overwhelming they shine.
Riding the trembling night on ravenblack clouds, haunting and dwelling dooming clocks.

Untill the corn of living planes has been whiped out,
Untill pagan rites once again are claimed,
Untill gusts of smoke are rising high,
Untill my body has turned to dust,

Visions of war rise before me, while I sleep.
Prophecies made by my hand smothers blood and tears on the soil.
While I start to laugh with my sickening existance, which is denied.

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