Ever
will I plant this worry
till the earth stops turning round.
It is fate!
They were born from the bleed,
strangers,
who taste naught but the pain.
The soil that's mingled with the blood
narrates the tragedy of their chronicles.
They chase the beast of darkness,
smash the icons of evil
at the barbarians' temples of sludge,
demolish the walls of the city
that's walled with frayed ethnicity,
shatter the mirrors of,
crucify demons in passages of the abyss,
and lock up the kings of genii
in amphora made of granite.
In the outstretched shade of a laurel tree
watered by warm tears,
the wild fantasies plant their grieves.
It is fate!
They depart without funeral or tears
but earth that embraces them not shall die!
