In the twilight time of this lonesome world,
The uproar of the wars with ourselves,
Makes us like the fallen leaves of a dead tree.
All of this sentient gloom considers to ask,
What is this place where shadows fall asleep,
And polarized light of a visible red glow feeds on human fear,
The phantomed rhythms gazed deep inside the human’s soul,
And far in the uprooted happiness, that was once denied,
Wrath makes humans hinder love.
The restless light is tousled by an unfathomed secret,
Our destiny is a trod expanding throughout all we see.
Dreaming of enthralling lore,
I try to bring all my eloquence to play,
But I grew hollow,
As if there was no warmth.
The surly wars will not stop,
And the leaves will not cease to fall.