O’er silver lake dwells an angel in mud
The serpent craved thee alone to drain
Thou art ne’er free from thine own blood
Third circle of hell wilt thou gain

Hands are cold and dying
Drawing down the venom of dismiss
Unearthly mother ne’er ease the crying
Defile thy grace with deceiving kiss

Shrieking souls devoured and caught
From the deepest core of plea
Woe unto thee for the war thou forgot
And silver becomes thee.

(Från 2012)


©Varja Linnea Askeland