Paroles: The Quintessence. Fields.

:
The innermost music of Blood
Decomposes - morbidity and stink
Yammering floats its wrack
Above wide fields

The old province gets filled up
Thought becomes a statue
It survives on a whole lotta dream
As it just got torn

Despite my blindness sometimes I see:
That blue songs tinkle
Hump-backed Calmness
The mourning march passing away

their well-deep eyes: dim and grim
With cryptic faces
ANd they're sprinkling the dust
On the Sea - Field gravel