Darzamat

Second two or maybe a day
I glance over yellowed pages
Touch the scares of your unpure soul
I drown in sticky passion of your memory
Born from chaos wind of hatred human faces it posses
The sand of the sarcophagus of memories blows
And every seed is a diamond blade
In the tact of their language beats my heart
And pass centuries
I touch the scares of your unpure soul
Sometimes death comes at night
Sometimes death is silence
Sometimes death scares the wind
Sometimes death gives birth to the dark
Let the show go on