All I can hear is the wind That omnipresent blow Which makes lifeless objects move and events flow Of which it says in the Bible Thou hearest the sound thereof But canst not tell whence it cometh Whither it goeth
In the grip of catacombs A room without an entrance Where a tomblike silence rules in the winter or in May Over the ones who have a reason to shun The light of day
At first, nothing but darkness Decaying soil and fungoid growth Eight steps in all – the remains of an iron staircase Each one at head height above the last In regular lines – the patterns of the past The precise shape of a hexagram
Entrapment Ankle-deep in dust, a vault too old The numbing slumber, the ruthless cold Enveloped my flesh like a stifling, soft woollen cloak
That smudge of white – the Juggler Staring at me with vacant eyes As he went down into the grave, so he will rise up And so will I.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
