What can ever bloom again,
When the power to live is missing,
Dryness sows hate inside of my heart.
A flower made of stone,
Forgotten in being.
Broken of life,
Disintegrated of illusion.
The dread lets me feel the force of love,
To refuse my power,
I hate the thirst of love.
It will judge me, judge me until death.
Sunday means flesh.