The journey goes on from the grey childhood to the fires 
of faith, the signs are followed among shadows, rats and 
wrecks. Through Hell and snow I go as they laugh and 
scream and wallow naked in the poisonous cold fields, 
roused in the comforting drunkenness. The journey goes 
on, time passes by and the sky is still grey and this 
greyness is the greatest of sins: the gentle snow which 
buries the souls and the world. And the sky is a lie, 
home of the cold black sun of a malignant god. Let it 
shine and feed the legions of fools. Let it shine and 
inspire those to bear its sight. And from the other side 
the black boy in the corner stares at me and his long 
time silent songs sing with a hint of despair from the 
halls of white death he has entered, behind the river and 
its black stream to which I used to drink and still drink 
and sing the songs of nostalgia. But no memory nor any 
rhyme, no matter the words, will dry Philomena's tears. 
And her tears feed the river, and so do mine. There is no 
hope nor mercy for those led astray and the roads 
disappear in the steady blizzard, and its knives of ice 
will numb your soul and kill your salvation in the halls 
of white death!