This morbid night melancholy 

Moon of funeral broods

Mist rising from the swamps

Where superstitions are alive

Frogs and crickets please me 

Though not long will my ears hear 

Not long will I howl at the moon

The end already creeps on my tongue

Between old suffering trees

I still see that which reminded me

Of a time sorrow had reigned



With hope crushed underneath 

A regent to the throne of black memory

Lost, forgotten and waiting for Hell

Asking why I left at all

Where are my weapons and dreams



There is no death to save me 

I have never lived

Obire Pestis 

Morbid night melancholy