A winding path in a quiet and cold storm.
It ascents higher and higher to an abyssal summit,
Abrupt ravines where sink the grounded souls,
The spirits tortured by the fire, the blood, the desire,
The dishannonic and intoxicating music of the impious cries,
The chorus of a dark etemal church,
The love which dies in a nauseous rale,
Vomiting her last sweetness in a melodic and proud crescendo,
Led through the transparent and fantastic colours,

The priest hears his last prayer
under the broken vault of this stonework which vibrates into
What it Is Not And Will Soon No More BE,
Insufflating him its dying fluid
which curdles under the rhythm of the requiem.
The piercing screams are at the apogee,
The fusion of the universe implodes under the pressure of the tears,
The howls are near,
I feel her breath beneath the trees,
And let me lay on the damp grey grass,
Her perfume is sinking into and I indul