Desolation

A nostalgique cold, wich tortures my hips wildly,
Spitting a rotted blood, its breath too near of me,
Sings an unnamed little song, wanna die ;
Ô dear, host your putrid hands of me, wanna fly!

Rising in a chamade of stagnating movements,
It slauthers without pity my achievements,
And I scream, and I cry, silentely in the winds,
As a desicated petal somebody finds.

And the Death brings clother his scythe gradually,
And my life flies, flies on the scythe passively,
And my lung consumate without slackening,
And in the wood, we can hear the rain's drips falling.

Ô dear, you my ice maker, my frozen lover,
Do not give me up thus, my ice floe supplier!
Do not give me up thus, I won't be a darkness slave !
Do not give me up thus, I am not enough brave...

..o.O.Ly.O.o..