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The Lost King Of The LyreRotten & scarlet deathAt night when I go to see him White hair of cinnamon smell on dusty chambers of ancient lore Locked behind Death´s door. The venom in his scream fills my song As the voice fades away The Sun sets on our hearts. Deep down in victorian fire I still play lost tales on his lyre. So lift your wine and tear Lit the candle of despair Doomed to wander forever deep On woods where ghouls never sleep. May you lay a bottle of green death at the stone of his grave, so the flowers of evil may blossom From our graven pain at winter. I´d be the patron of lyre and solitude on his castle of gravel. I´d be the Queen of Silence, forever a necrologic navel. May you come every year, Traveler from a pure & enchanted land, With Cognac and flowers on your hand to lay a black lotus on our eyes As my heart gently dies I´ll dry my flesh on October leaves Beg seven coins for the boat of ghosts; Travel in dreams & song into his decay As I rot myself day by day. Let me fade into this soil Deep into my King´s arms Let me toil the dirt & disperse the shards of my existence. |