A suicide in front of a mirror.
A frightened soul.
The wind moans in the black woods.
The night's tempest tears my heart from my chest.

My spirit, you are the Flying Dutchman,
always returning to the primal darkness,
getting drunk on the blowing of the wind!
A policeman blowing his whistle.
It is frightening to be a brother to the storm!
Frightening to be a brother to the silver sun.
Stay broken and slain, my spirit,
do not look to the dead slopes for salvation.
I walk through the woods. The tree trunks are black.
Two go leaning towards each other.
The black chasm of the universe above me.
I am leaning into it
and listening.

I walk through the woods. The tree trunks are black.
Two go leaning towards each other.
The black chasm of the universe above me.
I am leaning into it
and listening.