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My Dying Bride
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Vanite Triomphante
I often hunt you in my dreams,
But your wicked claw awaits me,
Aboard this snow-lit island,
Veins like tortured winter trees,
'Tis the service of my hand,
That silence climbs upon thee.
You are sweet and fine to listen to !
Long tresses about her neck, does the soprano sing your?!
Yet much is false.
This mighty evening,
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I've seen no face.
This is crushing me.
My quill it aches.
And old ships die like swans,
Against thy frozen icy shore,
Pass your dying body,
I leave you, in your thought.
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