Nothing in this world can be as immaculate and pure
As the love of us, Cold Ones, for the dead.
Our «love» lives only in those fleeting moments of recollection —
Memories we're fearing to forget.
Our love knows neither kiss nor touch,
We are embracing dust, air or ourselves
When visualizing what we've lost.
Awoken by a sound or scent,
Some visions call sad phantoms,
Floating, wrapped in fading colours — our lament.
And then there is the all-devouring dread:
«Some day I might not bring him back,
When my feeble mind can't help but lose the contours of his face».
Lost forever, lone and sad, gone forever to the dead…
So far beyond the barriers of the opposite space.
Yet, alas, despite it all…
Walking through these deserted halls…
It's easy still to love the dead…
It's easier to love the dead.