Digging the grave of the short story that is your life
Rambling the worms around your trembling knees.
In the frozen land you will bury you own mind,
That soiled memory of a character you once were.
And in the meadow of forgotten hopes,
Wrapped in the foggy gray cloak of the bitter morning,
You float through the vast harmony of Earth,
That you will no longer reach with your stone-cold hands,
Nor see with your dark veiled eyes.
But do not despair, fool,
For those who swallowed your words like honey-wine,
Will remember to follow the trail you left behind,
That same path you were once led into,
Before closing your eyes on the marvels laying upon you.