es behind
feel the night and see yourself enshrined

In the middle of the tormenting frost
I stear at flying souls so pale and lost
like angels from heaven high,
which left the throne of the seventh sky
To join the winds' war from the north-side bay
Into the forest-line and up to mountain high

The forest will sing my funeral song
where I at last will join the soil
to enter the womb of mother earth
promised to remember the surroundings from birth
behold the branches which once held my hand
and kept me away from the sunburnt sand
A Strife Won at Wraith...

Blood from my soul is already stolen
And the eagles have flewn from their stones
Even before the scars begin to stear

Walk the black path of fire
to the everlasting sunless fields
the owles have their flight, in the moon's sight
to escape the claws of night, joined by might
during the hourless night
caress the mountainside
and feel the souls' fade
see the torches and the stones behind
feel the night and see yourself enshrined

Faces scared but full of hate
seems to drown in the stormfull mist
to join the winds' war from the north-side bay
into the forest-line and up to mountain high

The forest will sing my funeral song
where I at last will join the soil
to enter the womb of mother earth
promised to remember the surroundings from birth
behold the branches which once held my hand
and kept me away from the sunburnt sand
A Strife Won at Wraith...



Along the Misty Morass

The sun is a falling star
as the moon is about to be a rising one
the first sign of night so far
seen through time, from forefathers to sons
whisper like the shades, the souls of night
the words that give me strength of gloomy sight
beyond the description of the twilight's call
I wish that the stars in my hands will fall
when thorns of darkness rip wounds in my soul

I walk through the grass
like a child left alone to sing
who the helping angels never bring
like a blaze through the night,
which covers me from mournful sight
as I join their dreams Along the Misty Morass...

The revelation of their eyes, gleaming so bright
as I welcome the shades to follow the dismal winds

Beyond the description of the twilight's call
I wish that the stars in my hands will fall
as the thorns of darkness rip wounds in my soul

I walk through the grass
like a child left alone to sing
who the helping angels never bring
like a blaze through the night,
which covers me from mournful sight
as I join their dreams Along the Misty Morass...

The sun is a falling star
as the moon is about to be a rising one
.......and the sky burns as thousand torches
under the roof of the ancient castle.......


Unborn Woods in Doom

Born as an ecstasy of black
inborn with minds of depressing fate
lost in the shadow of the twilight
attracted by spite of sinister calm
the lurid manifestation of the black
a ground untouched by moonshine
confront my steps at the path of infinity
the atmosphere of lurid blackness fills the mind
as a lust of the promised grace,
the winds blow cold in my face
stare towards the silent lakelet
to the forest of the unknown shades

These shades brought by the winds of lust
leaded by their sins
as a hall of gathering souls
with a performance of sins within
......Unborn Woods in Doom......

Created in the birth of ages
when the holy book had unformed pages
where the soul of a man is nothing
but a shade which is next to fade
as a lust of the promised life,
the winds blow cold in my face

These shades brought by the winds of lust
leaded by their sins
as a hall of gathering souls
with a performance of sins within
......Unborn Woods in Doom......

Confront my steps at the path of infinity
the atmosphere of lurid blackness fills the mind
as a lust of the promised grace,
the winds blow cold in my face

These shades brought by the winds of lust
leaded by their sins
as a hall of gathering souls
with a performance of sins within

Knowing that life is about to defy
the sun of tomorrow shall never open it's eye



Following the Growls

Carving the ground with a stake of darkness
impales the blackness with a torch of sins
follow the deep and sadful growls
along the path branches for years have hidden

And a ground where thorns look lovely
in spite of the weaving flowers of sin
listen to the growls disappear into the woods
to end in the chasm where the chorus of the wind sings
listen to the owles flying behind
to the years when truth the sins will find
I chant ancient rhymes,
behind trees in the shade of the light

Along the blood-rushing river I walk
through the breezful forest, my stormy lungs get filled
Point out the eyes of agony with the hate
From this side of the river, on my golden path

Following the Growls......
carry the leaves of my withered soul
as I follow these growls and still will
to the millennium when stones turn to ashes

And a ground where thorns look lovely
in spite of the weaving flowers of sin
listen to the growls disappear into the woods
to end in the chasm where the chorus of the wind sings

Along the blood-rushing river I walk
through the breezful forest, my stormy lungs get filled
Point out the eyes of agony with the hate
From this side of the river, on my golden path

Following the Growls......
carry the leaves of my withered soul
as I follow these growls and still will
to the millennium when stones turn to ashes

When the solstice perform on the sky
the sun soon dead leaves applaud with joy
until the autumn and when the thorns perform



The Hate From Miasma Storms

A shield held by a broken arm
and the other one shivering upon a stone
In the forest of a no-gleaming day
they try to avoid the soon dancing sky
with all friends invited to join the violent rage

When the stones of fire crush into forest deep
I see blood and souls behind dreadly weep
against the storm the branches have grown
but the owles have left, a greed for golden throne
a finger carving the soil of stone
to see the ashes beyond and blood so cold

The Hate from Miasma Storms

A sword held by a fallen arm
and the other one shivering upon a stone
In the forest of a no-gleaming day
they try to avoid the soon dancing sky
with all friends invited to join the violent rage

A pale and spooky moon claim to behold,
the blood-stolen hands, never to fold
against the storm the branches have grown
but the owles have left, a greed for golden throne
a finger carving the soil of stone
to see the ashes beyond and blood so cold

The Hate from Miasma Storms



Carved by Raven Claws

Behind trees the spirits hide their souls
when they at night join shades
for a ride with the winds
to hunt traces of the once-blood dried souls
which thorns the flowers in folden hands
and count the countless victims that fade
into the dance of shades, among trees

When the flames reach the spectral frontier
nor the loss of darkness bring forth the light
to avoid the sight of this throne of night
lay down to wait for the kings to crawl
and to stear in the air where the owles fly away
where the emperors of night conquer the blackened sky

And like flowers fold out
their sharp claws get enshrined
sharp as nails of a witch,
they thorn my face like a blaze

To escape the dawn and to hunt the sunset
the ravens fly above in a circle of joining mist
as we once enthroned new kings with a curse
......Carved by Raven Claws......

After the battle from dusk to dawn
the science of ancient books are used to heal
and not to deny the truth,
and in the front of a king shall kneel

When the flames reach the spectral frontier
nor the loss of darkness bring forth the light
to avoid the sight of this throne of night
lay down to wait for the kings to crawl
and to stear in the air where the owles fly away
where the emperors of night conquer the blackened sky

To escape the dawn and to hunt the sunset
the ravens fly above in a circle of joining mist
as we once enthroned new kings with a curse
......Carved by Raven Claws......

And like flowers fold out
their sharp claws get enshrined
......sharp as nails of a witch......



A Glade of Ingrown Blood

As the lord of the immortal throne
lift his hand to the symbolic crown
spirits called back to the forests
to find the sorrows behind mountains hidden

When the past follows the path of glory
I wander in the coldest part of forest
where only the frost seems to care, not the fear
as I stand under the tree-folden gate
consuming this glade to late
once blood was here to be spilled
and the veins of the soil got filled
view from the past carved in the stones
pointing ahead where the spirits walk alone

As the owles got thrown down by stones
an arrow stops the heart of a soul
behind the curtain of no light
they search for their beloved,
once eaten by the wolves
......A Glade of Ingrown Blood......

As I hatch the stake to the ground
to see if the blood still remains
I see the eyes of sadful destiny
comes through to recreate the souls of past
the believers of an ancient way of life
will again lit their torches in the end cave
to join the dark of dreamers millenium souls
to find the sorrow behind the mountains hidden

As the owles got thrown down by stones
an arrow stops the heart of a soul
behind the curtain of no light
they search for their beloved,
once eaten by the wolves
......A Glade of Ingrown Blood......



Forlorn As a Mist of Grief

The cold breeze strokes the soil
joined by mist pursued by rain
blows as a call of the ancient wisdom
mist filled with tears of ages so old
from the days when the flowers grew

My courage disappear of what mind creates
spirits walk by my side, touching my hands
lead me onward, the direction of grief
to the forsaken, a soul covered by misty veil
behold, the mourning faces with scars so deep,
shine so pale

Mist filled with tears of ages so old
from the days when the flowers grew

With stakes in their hands
a symbol of what used to be
forlorn in the shade of the so called reality
......Forlorn As a Mist of Grief......

Their silent movements perform as flames
the gathering of these souls
which the fullmoon claims

Brings the shades together as a mist of grief
fills the space between the carved trunks
the columns of the everlasting thatch
hold the souls who perform as shades beyond mist
reaching hands out searching for something to grip
as eternal sleep of death out of their hands will slip

With stakes in their hands
a symbol of what used to be
forlorn in the shade of the so called reality
......Forlorn As a Mist of Grief......

Their sins in life brought them within these fears
never to see the light, it will never be in their sight
comes toward me, stands so spectral even paler
winds blow from behind, their children they will find