What can surpass the beauty of an ending world?
The silent trumpets of some lord's stronghold,
Adorned by moss Poseidon's daughters play
For empty benches every passing day.

What can surpass the beauty of an ending world?
The blades of steel beginning to corrode
In heavy gauntlets of the armored mannequin,
Not destined to behead their foes again.

What can surpass the beauty of an ending world?
The ceilings painted not by artists, but by mold,
The withered pages rustling underneath
Disrupted not by shadow's gentle breeth.

The ancient city drowns in darkness when night falls
And bathe in daylight do uncrowded halls.
How far, I wonder, would be echo's flight
If voices never interrupt its graceful stride?

Corruption, curse, unmerciful defeat
It matters not which end for us to meet,
It is still the end...yet just before the final note is played
A secret beauty of the world becomes unveiled.

In every touch of stone, in every shred of lace,
An echo of a soul is left unscathed.
A will, a child's fantasy, a powerful desire
Immune to scorching heat of charnel pyre.

The weapons dream of crashing on the shield,
Of flag emerging on the ****** battlefield.
Amidst the gardens nymphs remember still
Forbidden kisses in the twilight chill.

The ghostly fingers pull the ghostly strings
For couples waltzing on the ghostly wings.
Through empty halls the howling winds still bear
The floral fragrance of a lady's hair.

This final moment glistens in the morning sun,
With no one to perceive, it will be gone.
So forth come I to take the final stand
As it was written, all the things must end.

The end is here. The final note is played.
These hidden meanings...they begin to fade.
As clear as day I witness on the edge of knife
The beautiful fragility of life.