Misanthropic Unholy Sadness

The falling all of nature and grim burning skies of dark.

And then rising of the darkness in my kingdom from the night.

Misanthropic holy sadness makes the unholy tears of dreams.

Makes the mountains as the stone and the forests as a tree.

True ruinous storms have come in the landscapes of the dark.

Painful dying of the owl I hear it out from the dark.

The sky is burning gray and the stars are darken away.

Disintegrate moon on the sky has last shining but gray.

The tired tearing voices, many cages lost the keys.

Prisoners in the prisons, and prisons are their creeds.

Oh, the morbid castles and cathedrals are the elder ruins like selves.

I feel here is so cold, colder than the colds of flames.

Wrathful storms desolates trees from the forests to the deeps.

The deeper and the deeper than the deeps of abyssic griefs.

The graveyard stones of tombs are flying on the air.

Empty graves, even the coffins, is this pure? Is this the end?

All funerals are here, here is no tears from heart.

Here is nature, here is forest, here is flames and here is dark.

True reasons of the living on this earth are where to find?

No one needs the world after death and living in this side.

Who is god? Who is Satan? What is reason of the life?

Where is hell? Where is heaven? Where is where the soul can fly?

Who is Ihs? Who is prophet? Who can change the brain of mine?

What is religion? What is life? What is promise? What is die?

In this coldest darkest corner of true dark imperials.

I'm sitting on my black robe and I'm tearing with the pride.

Ah, I see a funeral, the funeral of the brains.

But no one feels this dying, true silent dying of my brain.