Deathspell Omega Scorpions & Drought
There I stand, in a wood of trees pale as if bones eroded by nefarious winds, haunted by their barking echoes. Were doubts to arise that God retreats slowly from this world which until now renewed itself with every dawn nurtured by holy breath: behold those mountains the rocks of which turn to ghosts and those roots petrified in thirst, vainly defying the opaque silence of hollow rivers, and bury your doubts in a profane grave.
The greatest proof of justice and mercy God's supreme goodness and his loving caress inhabit these abrasive pillars of dust, the black veil at the horizon soon to hush in velvet silence your daughter's last breath, crowning you the depositary of ten thousand indignities: the eminent king of a world in dismay.
Every singularity is filed down by this continuous ochre stream. The only memory and existence those you cherished ever had and ever could have, the memory of the heart, is overcome by the drought of the heart: a desert with no life but scorpions coming as a swarm, as a flood with an abundance of deadly stings... one for every remembrance one for every comforting echo of the past for blithe days of hope turned sour.
