मूल बोल
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Soundless in an overshadowed realm. what gust of wind -breath of god -is ever still? crumbling; all time is swept away; the fever of memory. repentance is a two-fold scheme... sea against shore.
Evinced in solid and shape; the orchestra of breath. gaze sternly over agony lying in state. poetical apotheosis; they are not created to die! frantically grasp the terror of allowyal.
I cannot feel now...anger...hatred... what have i become?? torn from death's lifeless tree. those far reaching shadows... i am ripped from the earth; the air; the depths! you cannot make the dead live again.
