No Sails to be hoist in the Morning, 

No Way - just empty Horizons. 

And deaf is all Noise in the cold Spray, 

But loud tears what comes in Mind... 

tears what comes in Mind. 



Slow rot all earthly Shells 

Embrace a thousand Hells 



Alone in a Pit with the Demons, 

Engreased by festering Grotesque, 

Immured every Limb without Movement 

Long Nights 'till suddenly SmokeLasers light 

-'till Fires for the Count's Rise blaze bright