Cancer is growing in this world, eating every piece of meat. Corpses surround us, shivering us with their cold embrace. Putrefaction wails through them. Banshee's dance, flows of perfection, striking our strings. Can you let go ? Will you let me go ?
You lifted up one voice of woe, one lament of more than mortal grief. You are though as gloomy, as the nights' thrills. As she knelt down in prayer, you bloomed in blood. Anxiously, she mourns the days that pass. Fresh blood stained dress, silk swept in the sweetest pain, you desire her corpse with fire in its eyes. Beast shall bloom in darkness, half curled into ice - its moon-mirroring grave. Wave crashes into the bed of filth, slowly digging and rotting her body, the colour of the milk. "Lay your hands on the ground, entrust your soul to me" the banshee said.
Tempting curls whisper in the night, softly caressing your lips, delightfully tickling and stroking down your back. Dark wings powerfully unraving in the rhythm of sorrow. Piercing keen powerfully coroding in your heart, you sense her mourn, her dying anger aproaching us. Her beat - the bitter blood, her mind - ataxia of life, her breath - the winters' icy spring. Toward the grave, she paints her wings the colour of the death. It seems as never shallowed, the wounds she can't endure. With dark wings fully opened, she jumps in holy circles made of smoke. The fire that burns through flesh is nothing but the water on her face. Delicately, liquid feelings make their way, striking and beating and burning digs of mud blooded soil. Above the emerald plains, her smile beneath her cannibaly red-painted lips is haunting us apart.
Four feet under the ground and still won't be enough for us to get away from the scream breaking through the rooms and stairs The ice beyond the ivory satin skies binds you. Never let go of this dark, stained memory. Cause six feet under the ground an still won't be enough for you to die.
"I know, I've been digging my own grave all along,
but in the end, it was you who buried me alive."