Black Sheep

Osiris's scythe, I have never seen it hanging above the shore. Within the tombstone, a feather of truth, quickly jot down the heart of fate. Sitting atop the scythe, I only want to ask: who will go and claim Calypso's heart?

Lost in the wrong direction, I have no vessel to sail; sights and sounds mingle, leaving the way ahead blurred.

On the land at the world's end, there is no direction, no distinction between day and night, no matter the cold or warmth. I am slowly learning the taste of exile.

Endless white sands imprison a stranded soul; the vanished enchantment belongs to the past, and to the future.

At the ends of the earth, the most beautiful flower is longed for by all, yet seen by none. Whether or not its fragrance remains through the years, every windless heart feels it tremble softly, yearning to speak without a sound.

Every sorrow and indignation will leave behind a trace of joy; every regret will leave behind a perfect corner. In the frozen depths of the sea, I search for a way out, a glimmer of hope.

The blood-red sun sinks halfway beneath the sea's horizon, weeds drift down with the rain, and nightingales lose themselves in ruin. Filthy waters seize the sacred, wearing the face of a god, spanning time itself: the dead who live forever.