Through the steadfastness of centuries growing up Are the dead stalks Dimly glaring in the moonshine Are cold roses
Putrid stench of flowers of evil Is the fragrance of death In the silvery shine of cold thorns there are Bloody streams
Like the fingers of black iron hand Are the panzers of buds The cold of their leaves like the razorblade Cuts the flesh
The black night is fulfilled with silent knell With the singing of death With the twittering of dead phantom birds In the dead roses
Through the steadfastness of centuries growing up Are the dead stalks... Steel of thorns, ice of buds Blades of leaves... Those were inhaling the aroma Of flowers of the evil in the black night Are consumed forever with the coldness Of lifeless realms
