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Description
The worms are the only guests,
In the dark void.
In the milky cobwebs of the cold.

Silent servants to their illness,
Bearers of an even greater emptiness.
A cosmic void pulsing inside them.

The bloody veins of the world stretch into nothing,
And perish just to get up again in the morning,
And then again they rot, in an endless, broken cycle.

They feed of their own incapability,
Freeze inside the meaninglessness silently,
Digging in their empty, long dried-out hearts.

And they live, they somehow breathe disgustingly,
Into meaninglessness, into depth, into darkness,
They joyfully drink and poison themselves from the chill.

Deep inside that tomb, that sarcophagus,
They nest with such joy, such weird delight,
Just like the decorated, stone edges of the crypt themselves.

The world is a forgotten, blue Necropolis,
A bed covered with the baldachin,
Of blindness and superficiality...

Description
The worms are the only guests,
In the dark void.
In the milky cobwebs of the cold.

Silent servants to their illness,
Bearers of an even greater emptiness.
A cosmic void pulsing inside them.

The bloody veins of the world stretch into nothing,
And perish just to get up again in the morning,
And then again they rot, in an endless, broken cycle.

They feed of their own incapability,
Freeze inside the meaninglessness silently,
Digging in their empty, long dried-out hearts.

And they live, they somehow breathe disgustingly,
Into meaninglessness, into depth, into darkness,
They joyfully drink and poison themselves from the chill.

Deep inside that tomb, that sarcophagus,
They nest with such joy, such weird delight,
Just like the decorated, stone edges of the crypt themselves.

The world is a forgotten, blue Necropolis,
A bed covered with the baldachin,
Of blindness and superficiality...