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Immortelle for the hollow grave

de Blackthorn

The cold voice of the tempest,
It makes me run away
There's something bittersweet
And true in the air this day
At long last I can whirl round
With fallen xanthic leaves
Unite with birds of passage and fly above the trees

(The) stories that must flash out
With a pulsing aorta of (the) sky
And then must turn to ashes
I kiss them all goodbye
The rotten lips taste divine,
Can't explain to you why
The last pain pierces my heart
I laugh and deeply cry

And stunning is the black-eyed thicket
And the swamped grass,
Not a human, not a god yet,
Come, veni foras!
And stunning is the black-eyed thicket
And the swamped grass,
Not a human, not a god,
Mother, veni foras...

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