كلمات Autochthon

Hands and knees grasping earth The shining rust Eggshell eyes Brimming madness Drink deep The tumult fades, The silence dreams of nothing The tree is as old as age, Branches grow, arcane fractals Whispering to you of gentle vacuum and release Rest your weary brow in laughing, sighing boughs, Soothe your fevers in the pulsing bark and rot, And dream of nothing. Drown your sorrows in murmurings, That fissure from gnarled growths and red earth, "The taker-away of pain... ... and the giver-back of beauty!" Cast your eyes into your eyes, As veins and roots become one, As worlds spill from inchoate thoughts, As you fade.