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Ten thousand winters forlorn

Betwixt the harvesting scythe

And hawthorn scepter's blaze

Trees like haunting sculptures

Have ever girt the way

Ten thousand winters past...

The seasons were mired in grey

The heavens churned in languid streams-

Tempests thrashing on silver mirrors

And horns caressed the gibbous moon.

Chill as the void between veiled stars

The howling Wurm in hoary vesture

The with'ring world did wreath,

As the reaper o'er the moribund

His frigid pall would drape.

Huddled in earth 'round Promethean tears

The pastel light illumed pale faces

Of Man fallen benighted.

They sought hope

And severance from the cold

Through shrieking, scathing, star-blown winds

Long was the path

To a hallowed sell of dying leaves

A vestige of green seasons

With what rites, ghastly they danced

As moths fluttering towards flames.

Shadows formed and crept from their mouths,

And drew them

From the solitude of the wood

to the more dreadful solitude of heart

With tongues of honeyed thorns

They awoke me.

Leprous mouths of dwindling faith

They invoked me.

Carving their hopes in my flesh

The Wurm collapsed into my marrow

By my blood the season was bought...

Old memories swollen

as myriad bloated corpses

Rising on putrescent tides

Of some loathsome sea,

But like the sea, they recede.