The Storm

The dying trees
in regenerated times
crying under the utopic sky,
convulsing, screaming,
between sinister lands,
falling into the occult eye.

Vertigo in the air,
lacerated hands,
in black their souls,
inside the violent whirlwind.
The dying leafs
ripped by the sword
bleeding at the rain.

The wind
takes the dry skin
trough the death's way.

Entombed
in this withered garden,
drownned in death's swamp.

Supreme immortals watch
sing they fury
all will be dust
staining the sky forever.
The crystal's broken itself
and soul aspires heat,
night steps runaway,
tragedies are blinding the wind.

Intimate evil spills fire,
infernal resentment
murmures sentences,
is the secret of the storm.

The sepulchre waits
like a recipient with old blood,
like an abandoned fortness.

Demons stammer
the delicate sound of ambiguity,
darking the interior of the spirits.