Forsaken

From Beneath the Midnight Sun

I shall die calmly like a cold moon,

Pain endure,

Desolation,

The morning mist, I shall never see again.

O!, desolation,

The moon slowly dies

The stormy clouds painfully moves in,

I feel winter on my shoulder,

Death is a cold dead hand.

The reaper gravely possess my soul,

Alas! his scythe has freed my caliginous, dim, dusky,

Musky, and obscure ghost.

Tomorrow’s sunset will only emanate a pseudo

Deliberation of illumination--

A placebo of rapture; I do not care.

My eyes: heavy stones,

Have forsaken my only soul.