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Cold threats her skin.

It is already hard,

really hard.

What once was dew, today are pearls,

of ice, in that rotting body,

that body, that decomposes

the act of living.

Her nails are like claws,

so sharpened that she tears life

just by breathing,

and if it's a light sight

she doesn't care...

A frozen whisper

in the nape of the one who

shall resurrect tomorrow,

because of her own voice.

Summer is coming to his end,

leaves fall, upon the lake,

the manuscript, with no hand,

Autumn is written.

Cloak of stars shall be her shroud,

let's meet near the river,

fire burns strong among the snow.

Shadows threat her.

She's already sunken,

she swims in the mud.

A halo of light,

or a putrescent breath

upon the wet stone,

among the trees.

Death is recurrent only for the living ones,

the cell shivers,

rain calms down when it reaches the ocean.

The Moon shall be the blade of her veins,

and the Night her deathbed,

or isn't that the case, for everyone?

Because fate is just a light vision

of forgetfulness,

or a desolate illusion,

it's a threatened child.

When Night come,

nothing shall be left of me,

except what

is not here now,

at the daybreak of the future

when fog clears the eyesight,

nothing I shall be.

Naked foot upon the soil,

naked soul, at night,

the end; the beginning.

And her bones are like bark,

and her verses like roots,

but her kisses are a basket,

full of tumours.

She is lay on the ground,

shadows call her,

she clings to the mud,

but the mud swallows her.

And her bones are already dust,

and her verses wind,

but her kisses are like tears,

lost above forgotten trees.

Trapped in oneself,

screams settle down,

the calm that once did torture us,

now is dried petals on the wound.