Weakness of the past
Like vapor in the trenches
These lowlands haunted

By a man clad in frost

All evil deeds done

Are piled up into hills
And visible on the left side
Fields of bad omens


Behind the skyline
The worst noise of the world

Violent crows of this dream
Flying backwards


Open below us
Another swarm grows
Feel like tumors

Which shall return

And every night someone

Moves all the clocks forward
And the sun seems to
Set always at the sunrise


No one leaves this place
No roads out from here

No passing birds ever
Really do pass by


No one entering here
Walks without trembling
No one ever dreams of

The hands of tender fathers