Pokol

Wreath of nails hold apart
The flesh that is now parted
I hate myself
For being weak enough to faint

Bloodstained are my hands
Fill my chalice
Full of endeavour
I am so alone

My hands are like
A great river of death
I seduce pain and clasp nettles to my arms
More pain coming from within than from outside
No peace for me in death
All the world turns to ice in my eyes
My lamentation is long
Recalling a past when i had a home

From my temple
There is no comfort
For that
I will soon be absent