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Hanging down from the ceiling ... the old pendulum now rests, |
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Time stands still ... - like iron - ... in the house of the dead. |
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Our fragile souls lie weeping, sealed in sleep and balls of lead, |
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All flowers here are dust, but we can still recall their scent. |
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In filth, decay and disrelish the leg-less man lay kneeling, |
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Weeping petrified, out of his mind ... - half buried, yet still breathing. |
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His lips are soft like powder and so cold ... colder than snow; |
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Mingled with the dust he fell, all paralysed by flesh and bone. "Forgive us, please, for we're long fallen", |
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Shivering carcass shuns the light, |
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Ancient bodies' fallen heaven, a dark star in a fallen sky. "Flow my tears !" , the angel said, |
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He forced a smile than bowed his head, |
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How much he wished that he could die ... - |
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Tore his old wings off with a sigh. |
