A rolling hill With suffocating oaks Under the dire grey of sky Pass along the dire straits Of the Ded.
And the Ded do speak Like silent auras wandering In poetical forms, From the Ded they embrace The pain and sad skies.
Slowly they walk the desolations And bring forth the balance Of the darkness's and a Black rose blooms.
Once alive the Ded searched For hope; But the self absorption In the heavy skies In the mind's prison Hold a still terror, The Ded walk among marble slabs Of light.