No Sails to be hoist in the Morning,

No Way - just empty Horizons.

And deaf is all Noise in the cold Spray,

But loud tears what comes in Mind...

tears what comes in Mind.



Slow rot all earthly Shells

Embrace a thousand Hells



Alone in a Pit with the Demons,

Engreased by festering Grotesque,

Immured every Limb without Movement

Long Nights 'till suddenly SmokeLasers light

-'till Fires for the Count's Rise blaze bright