[Α]

[I]
Why do we torture those we love
What shackles bind the loves of our lives
To the side of the burning glacier
Snow field flay the innocent corpse away
And born again dead with freezing dawn
Swirling shape, demonic shade
Vanished back into the void of lance-toothed god
Frost dragon eye waking and watching
Jealous with the jealousy of god
Bluer and paler than sixty undead moons
Shedding ingots lead cold and pointed

[II]

Frozen in timeless
Forever the end
Forever the steaming blood spilled
Splash on unforgiving ice and chilled
Into the dying shape of bleeding
Break this beautiful thing like glass
A scattering of snow from pines
Before the Age of Waste

[III]

The Ideal profanes the Actual
Kill it a thousand times and a thousand
And a thousand times more and still it comes
On crooked legs
To torment the living
With its loathsome auguries

[IV]

Goetic thing trace triangle in snow
It knows...
Curse of race is prophecy
See there is no end to perfection
Dungeon ice jail the Master in rime of endless winter

[Β]

[I]

Love burned his body but stole his heart away
Locked within an ebon box
Fixed by countless broken locks
Silence says what no one else could say
Upon the beach and upon the windswept shore
A gathering of sinners mourns
Immortal words that dying scorns
Off the coast of Madness
Not far from the daemon hollow Genius
[II]

Life is short, though death is very long
A drawn-out elegy to the saddest song
That was ever sung by the mindless earth
In silent tombs waiting and dreaming
Of growing and becoming and seeming
To swell with the bloated mask of Pride
But then to fall beneath the weight of suicide

[III]

Love is forever but you are not
Dusty amber on a dusty shelf
And its dusty ancient captive gazing out
The flower pressed between the pages
Of an antique book to remind us of our rages
Stoppered tears hoarded in a flask of crystal
Holy water, an ocean's worth of memories
Stoppered in a flask of black rock crystal

[IV]

Shut away are the ruins of our lives
In anguish on a couch of knives and dreams
Nothing remains but the memories of others
And the words and lines in the murmuring of stream