Take my hand in the old 'Theatre Of Seven Hells',
|
a ferry that bowed its wings,
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we call Her: 'Moon by Day'.
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Life - a book of painful tongue that hurts our ears.
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Flowers of the end, their seed shall grow.
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Your breath shall be my coat,
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the underworld is, oh, so cold.
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The dead don't feel chill,
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but please, hold me warm.
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The aweful night has gone; what lay before...
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we can't remember.
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Even Morpheus has drowned in the lament
|
of his own weeping shadow...
|
|
-----------------
|
Not Dead But Dying
|
| Sopor Aeternus |
