When life has ceased, when the termination of the traditional
spirit and catastrophic barbaric desolations surrounds
the core of my linear cold menace, feeling the power
and reflection of the inner winterwich is always present
in this cosmic landscapes of sorrow.
Are the winds and whispers ashes of an ancient memory
which tries to release the thousand pictures of agony?
(that lies dortman in the rustand and frost of my
cosmos within...) Shattered and deceased all the
once bright possessions, that lead this strangeland
are now just a feeble flame in my soul...