He lies on black, prickly roses.
He often left his lodging,
to keep one's duty.
Sometimes, the roses turn to red.
If he keeps one's duty,
he exhausts someone into his empire.
Maybe the roses turn to red again.
He's the rejected redeemer of the mankind.
Sometimes, the roses turn to red again.
He streches out his pale, bony fingers,
to transport on his next.
His immediate companions,
the opposites between
- sorrow and relief
- fight and resignation.
Nobody can escape him,
it's the way of life.
Rumours say you can live in this empire,
Changed by his hands,
by the hands of death.
- blood, bodies, souls
- but !!!
Sometimes, the roses turn to red again.
