Rememberance Of Things Past
Ved Buens Ende
This sweetness That surrounded us And bled with us We touched it And it smelt far worse than weeds I swarm, deserted away Like glass, warm and as fevers, I am death... Witches painted me, Like the mysteries created me I were woven into blasphemies I swarm, deserted away Like glass, warm, and as fevers, I am as flame I am death... For I, I weave our blasphemies Witches painted me, Like the mysteries created me Like where the poets breathe, I were woven into blasphemies