Grotesque as the cold crypts that sing.
Sorrow in the gray mist that shields.
In the midnight where the shades sank above,
whispering with dead winds on the whitest moon.
Circle rounds the winter screen,
following the chiming on red bells cry.
My fly rests in a summoned frosty land.
Sings of pain and ice we hear.
Battling lives of moonrise field the yard.
For I seen them tower shaken suns.
Any shore of frost wind cast up for fog.
No one lives with the bluest permagrimlessness.
Lavender‘s cry into the blackest circle of time before.
The shades sank beneath in the moon light.
Through man‘s stillness breath in chime tolls.
Shynesslessness in my heart wide open,
busted wide open for me.
Moon rise in the halls of raven‘s might.
Mightier than all ages before...
Shades of moon light sank beneath.