The Storm کے بول

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.