Towards the rich, archaic heavens, towards the black diorama,
You are the artist and the texture
That plays with the mantle of the Earth.

When the bleakest of powders
Lie rooted to the starched stones,
And the roots that feed the peaking trees
Embrace the sleeping stones.

Archaic pearls of sleep and death,
The voice of December losing its breath.
And the floweryard of white and grey is haunted,
Is haunted.

White as the down of flaking snow,
The heroic emblems of life.

Green is the colour of my death,
As the winter-guise, I swoop (towards) the ground.
Green is the landscape of my sorrowfilled passing.

Archaic pearls of sleep and death,
the voice of December losing its breath.
And the floweryard of white and grey is haunted,
Is haunted.

White as the down of flaking snow,
the heroic emblems of life.

We are In Flames,
Towards the dead archaic heavens.
We are the mantle and the texture.

That alters the mantle of the Earth.
Archaic pearls of sleep and death,
The voice of December losing its breath.
And the floweryard of white and grey is haunted,
Is haunted.

White as the down of flaking snow,
The heroic emblems of life.

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