We are the careworn souls, a portrait of magic was carved to our heartshapes. We’re dying in sleepless nights, oh, vainly we try to find the inner serenity, underneath the black sun in the sky. A few voluptuous ivy kisses, they are hot and heartfelt like an endless life journey, and nothing will make their pain go away. Empty feelings full of sights of the frowned faces that hide everlasting dolour, oh, so young. We’re full of passion, hate, anger and grief. The chains of dailiness bind us there’s no escape. My inner voice summons the cry of the ages that drowns in the obscurity („Spirit of the wood, save my soul !!!“) - and the cry be my desperate destiny. Only the wistful sound of sublime tones can save in the captivity our contemplative minds from the melancholy. Being scared of ourselves, we can look through all the mighty sceneries and all around seems to be watched through black glass, where the blood of manuscript drips down. Living in a world where there’s no cure to be found that would ever heal up the thrusts inflicted by fate on the consciousness that is so fragile anyway. Lives like marble statues conceal the treasures of eternity. Endeavouring to descry a hint of the principle of existence, abortively we hold our arms towards the gates ...