Merrimack Melancholia Balneam Diaboli
Only the man regarding nothing as important is able to
fully sacrifice his life on the altar of his god.
So wonder, fool:
what's the blessing?
What's the curse?
Sick like a monk harassed by the devils of the twelfth
hour,
and by the sun warming up the bath of Satan.
"Let them run" says the voice you all know too well.
The believer's race is elsewhere.
Oceans of shimmering colours are dancing before the
eyes almost blind,
tired of a too long play for the end has been revealed.
The light fades away, obscured by the black bile which
rains in the veins like acid on rust.
The colours turn dim and nothing shines any longer,
appealing no more, under the sick immobile sun spreadin
it's damned poisoned light.
The sick immobile sun warming up the bath of Satan.
The virgins come numbing every pleasure,
eight are they, eight paths out of their place.
The virgins come choking the desire,
closing the doors of flesh.
Almost blind and deaf, with a dead heart pumping dead
blood through dry veins.
Noble is the vague, dark sorrow of the one longing for
the infinite and whose detestable existence is no
longer suitable for the captives of materia,
for he carries death in his belly
