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From the unceasing stare of the heavenly eye

the true heart sickens

where the purifying streams of life ran dry

as the blood thickened.

Icarus in the glory of his own mortality

could not break the silence of divine winds

with blunt claws and featherless wings.

Self-loathing sprouts underneath dark shades

which have never been pierced

by the flash of the blade.

A white veil

laid down on the green that night

between pillars of black

reflecting the pale blue light.

A play of colors - a subtle death in disguise

spreads his fragrance like swarming fireflies.

Pure, radiant - like cherry blossoms in spring

know nothing but falling -

dying in beauty within.

If I go riding the waves

my corpse shall crown the foam

If I cross highest mountains

deep moss shall grow

on my mortal remains

But if I die

at his holy feet

and breathe my last black breath

From my dead body shall grow new seed

And I won’t ever look back.

Most horrific self inflicted wounds

caused by the sword of truth,

Death without deliverance

and atonement of guilt,

Punishment in the form of life

and the dawn of the flesh.