This morbid night melancholy Moon of funeral broods Mist rising from the swamps Where superstitions are alive Frogs and crickets please me Though not long will my ears hear Not long will I howl at the moon The end already creeps on my tongue Between old suffering trees I still see that which reminded me Of a time sorrow had reigned With hope crushed underneath A regent to the throne of black memory Lost, forgotten and waiting for Hell Asking why I left at all Where are my weapons and dreams There is no death to save me I have never lived Obire Pestis Morbid night melancholy

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