This evening the moon dreams more lazily . As some fair woman, lost in cushions deep . With gentle hand caresses listlessly . The contour of her breasts before she sleeps . On velvet backs of avalanches soft . She often lies enraptured as she dies . And gazes on white visions aloft . Which like a blossoming to heaven rise . When sometimes on this globe, in indolence . She lets a secret tear drop down, by chance
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A poet, set against oblivion . Takes in his hand this pale and furtive tear . This opal drop where rainbow hues appear . And hides it in his breast far from the sun
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Sorrows of the Moon
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| Celtic Frost |
