Hung be the sky

With black

Yield day to night

May the

Presage

Come alive

With pure rage

Out of the grim nothingness,

Out of the dismal woods and noxious mists

Into an assemblage of warmth,

Into your house, your room, your wrists

Know, however many doors you

Lock I’ll batter down them all

And whatever forces you summon

They can’t save your soul

Oftentimes it seems to you

Something silently lurks there beyond the light

yield
wrists
world
witch
windows
whatever
until
there
yourself
termination
summon
standing
source
flesh
guaranteed
lurks
doors
chain
start
dismal
candles
desperate
creed
chasing
concentration
forces
become
batter
forced
separating
faith
alive
black
assemblage
bright
check
beyond
bring
myself
grows
house
reality
however
light
woods
something
green
mists
night
warmth
before
nothingness
noxious
oftentimes
overwhelming
place
presage
rueful
ruthlessly
seems
shall
silently

Click on any word to see the translation


Click on this icon to translate the entire sentence
