What can ever bloom again,

When the power to live is missing,

Dryness sows hate inside of my heart.

Fading lust,

A flower made of stone,

Forgotten in being.

Broken of life,

Disintegrated of illusion.

The dread lets me feel the force of love,

To refuse my power,

I hate the thirst of love.

It will judge me, judge me until death. 

Sunday means flesh.