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Silvers of the moon,

Wax and wane, each time

A cloud approaches.

Like warrior of the old,

Brandishing its rays as spears

Of the ancient, soothing, penetrating,

Haunting, Confunded by the profounds.

Like hallucinations, false, but yet so true.

Like a siver sepulture. Chiseled,

By the god himself. And yet it contains,

What all sepultures are meant to.

Days grow weary of their monotony of

Constant upheaval and decline.

And yet I carry on, destined to end up,

In a sepulture, not so silver on the inside.

What I crave for, I know not,

Nor will I ever do, I believe, Yet

This yearning, this thirst, it's insane.

Thawings break, spring is in the air.

And yet it's so cold inside. What reasoning,

What logic in continuation, when I know

That a sepulture awaits me at the end.

Silvers of the moon, rain down

Upon me, like celestial tears, meant to

Soothe me, bringing sadness eternal, instead.

And the dawn brings with it, shearing rays of pain

And remorse. I wish for once, the monotony breaks.

I wish for once, the dawn doesn't crack open

With all its rudeness, and the tears keep falling

On my sepulture forever...