Where the dying scream was echoed by blood,
her lifeless corpse has taken place,
rot by the pale and cold sunlight,
her blood is being shed upon this blackened grave.

Deflied the sacred place
with her stenching corpse has been.
Either alive, either dead,
Ea, my lifeless bride will dream.

So let the gray sun burn her flesh,
her soul has been already shed.

Through day and night, her blood has dreamt,
under the freezing light, she has awake.
Her veins have drained, but all around her,
the grey has gone, her blood has shone.

Trapped in the gloom of this grisly town,
I miss her eyes, her voice, her skin;
and although she's gone, I hear her voice,
she sings all day, she greets, she lives.

Her eyes bloom, extoling colour amongst the grey,
magenta, red, purple and green,
her fragance, her life and joy, invade the town,
bursting colours amongst the old gray grottos.
But this garden, is not alive,
for her image is just a wraith, a mirage.
Her joyful soul compels me in neglecting loneliness;
and soon enough, I'll share your blooming tomb.

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