groan of dark wood throughout my daring soul
 Rides like a wild hunt and falls like mountain stream of thoughts
 gloom that stole the soil emorisoned buried land inside itself
 Strangled in embrace of dusk without fresher gulp of life
 Its palms upon the tremor of the rind without a vile call of weakness and pain
 The better taste of blood and chill of death, the proud songs of wind
 Branches the lands of dead they seize its lead with fears
 Deah is not dreadful while you are young
 Or when being old you want to pass away
 Still his lands reak out for the stars searching for the Thread of Skjuld
 Be you the winged one your fate is not to for rot in grave
 But he spits poison afraid of his own shadow
 Sign of Enuy is a [bad word] stigma of egoism
 Always [bad word] of false optimism
 Death and vice its lesson it missed
 call of madness a heap of misunderstandings
 Its morals and principle are left to rot in dirt
 One gathers mud he's living fast
 Smashing hands to blood from the senceless spite
 One stakes himself and throws a coin
 While staring at the gun one looks into her eyes
 One finds defence beneath worm's ominous star
 He feeds its blood to parasite poisoned buried in the dust of time
 And wind still howls against this silence he steals the weerings from the ancient woods
 When Lady Sorrow kiss the graveyards, she feeds the burial beast with the wine of blood
 And the devil still laughs and hisses greedy breaks his fangs in the malicious grins
 Replacing with daydreams the likeness of life for creature that feeds upon the lifes
 While someone is fighting the other is just spitting there are also the ones laughing at them both
 One losts himself in the search for passion another one shall bury his love in crypts of inmost fears
 Death with a Scythe would banish hope rip open a rotten soul with storms
 desert demon shall die by drops of rain and feed the lost soul with its poisoned blood