Far from here, a house forsaken on lands of yesterday
|
the silence of the night has crept in
|
as weeping of the women, as thoughts of solitude
|
as sadness and as grief
|
|
In a dim deserted room a token left on the table
|
a talisman, a hairbrush from his father
|
oozing from the shaft a stream of bitter sap
|
dripping scarlet flow, so slow
|
|
They know it to be an emblem of death
|
a sign of destruction
|
they recognize the end of a friend
|
the agony of a man and son
|
they look at brush, remember the black hair
|
they weep the bitter sap
|
|
Oozing from the shaft a stream of bitter sap
|
dripping scarlet flow, so slow
|
bristles weeping wet, into a pool of red
|
|
-----------------
|
The Sign
|
| Amorphis |
