In the midst of a circle consists of fragile pains,
Beneath a sly smile, I'm writhing by scratching my veins.
Blameless faces have alined curiously around,
Peeking their rots without mind the mornful sound.
More noisy than hypocrite confessions, a dirgeful story is being told,
By the mutes to deafs, to deceive the coming of foretold.
The matt masterpiece is marching to the sky,
Rising by grumbling, silenced menace is nigh.
A secrecy blessed with soil is waiting upon a serene howl,
Spilling out a delusion and a dream from mouth of an owl.
Trying to straighten up and ignore the pain a dull aeon long,
To reach a shelter as frail as a cradle song.
My blunt heart is bleeding, bewaring from violence lying in wait,
But can't help minding the tender voice coming from labyrinths reaching out my fate.
Walking through the silent ruins around the cold and moist stone track,
Watching the ravens hiding the time and flying into black.
An old tree, shoken by thunder once and will never bloom,
Lies beside the sea enclosing a naive gloom.
Running towards exhausted to lay down under it for a forlorn sleep,
But the ground is shaking with a cursed scream from deep.
Shaking me, the lost roar of a forgotten nightmare,
Glancing up to the sky, mire have covered the air.
The faceless man is nearing to me creeping within miasmal cinder,
Postponing the untold till the arrival of frozen winter.