Merrimack In The Halls Of White Death
The journey goes on from the grey childhood to the fires
of faith, the signs are followed among shadows, rats and
wrecks. Through Hell and snow I go as they laugh and
scream and wallow naked in the poisonous cold fields,
roused in the comforting drunkenness. The journey goes
on, time passes by and the sky is still grey and this
greyness is the greatest of sins: the gentle snow which
buries the souls and the world. And the sky is a lie,
home of the cold black sun of a malignant god. Let it
shine and feed the legions of fools. Let it shine and
inspire those to bear its sight. And from the other side
the black boy in the corner stares at me and his long
time silent songs sing with a hint of despair from the
halls of white death he has entered, behind the river and
its black stream to which I used to drink and still drink
and sing the songs of nostalgia. But no memory nor any
rhyme, no matter the words, will dry Philomena's tears.
And her tears feed the river, and so do mine. There is no
hope nor mercy for those led astray and the roads
disappear in the steady blizzard, and its knives of ice
will numb your soul and kill your salvation in the halls
of white death!