In the shadows, it lurks deep in the woods. Cold flames and whispers, dwelling in the ancient sacred place, surrounded by coffins and bones. Howling of wind like a scream of cursed souls – between the trees. Staring eyes, watching, knowing. Just before the dawn – a glare upon the woods. It comes as a foreshadow of dread; engraved on the tombstones of centuries. And now it is the time to open the stone gates, to the tombs full of dust and cold breathe to see the naked spirits. Forbidden and silent but forever alive. Under the bones, under the cold soil lies the essence of physical death. The cold grave stone and the mound of dusty bones – is all what we left. Death is the final experience of life – like a freezing tear that flows on the black skull. Like a rain rattle on the empty coffin. We are all descending into void, and like a ghosts we haunting the dreams of alive mourners. Witnesses of vanishing leafs raindrops and snow. That all will cover our graves. Forever under the memories written down on the pages of glooming history.