Blood Of The Black Owl - The Melancholy Article

Within crushing woe...
We can never again reach the past...
Melancholy, our temple...
We no longer see, the forests...
The trees no longer speak, to us...
The birds have ceased to sing...
We wear the skins...
Of the carrion fowl...
We cannibalize our dead...
Our faces are worn...
With the gallows mask...
The soil is tilled...
With bones...
Our kinsfolk are interbred in death...
The great wolf has swallowed the sun.