Empyrium Mourners
Meagre trees in the shrouds, as olde as the stones.... Mourners of abandonåd love, fornever their woes shall grow silent. O how many times may the moon has shone - reflected in these black lakes? Should it be that we can hear, the woes of those who ceased their lifes? O so old they are... they bare the neverending grief... Age-old miserability Ancient bitter beauty Lost is the hope of those, who walk the moors with pain in heart. ...and all joy it sinks, burried deep, forever presumed dead. O so old they are... they bare the neverending grief... Age - old miserability, a bitter beauty thrilling me
