Thy Will Be Done Liturgy (jachim)
Crushed by the celestial weight of contention
Crawling in the absence of light
Searching with veiled vision
Was stopped in the middle of belief
On sojourn’s pathway
I can’t find myself
Apocryphal these mysteries
Not colored with any shades of integrity
Only suppression
A citadel to stand time
The last flame in the blood line
Crooked face
While they feast on the greed
(Famine sets us free)
What is this loss
(We must bear our own cross)
I feel this frost
Withering Vines Of Intention Disguised
