Obire Pestis

This morbid night melancholyMoon of funeral broodsMist rising from the swampsWhere superstitions are aliveFrogs and crickets please meThough not long will my ears hearNot long will I howl at the moonThe end already creeps on my tongueBetween old suffering treesI still see that which reminded meOf a time sorrow had reignedWith hope crushed underneathA regent to the throne of black memoryLost, forgotten and waiting for HellAsking why I left at allWhere are my weapons and dreamsThere is no death to save meI have never livedObire PestisMorbid night melancholy