In this abode of distress where the old scars bleed again, we pray to the morningstar as the heirs of sorrow that we are. Our colossal wounds hurts here, deep inside, abandoned in the lowest pit.
In the black womb of light we sense, in the distance, the mourn of the oceans.
Old reveries forgotten, cradled in the arms of a mother named death.
21 Jan. November's Doom Days Festival (Sofia, Bulgaria)