I've planted my sharp shovel, inside my home.
Outside, the wind was blowing. Outside it was rain.
And dug beneath the home, far, in deep underground.
Outside, the rain was blowing. Outside it was wind.
From within the pit, I threw off the ground, just outside the window.
The ground was so black: her curtain so blue.
Up from the windows, the ground kept built up
And so high it risen, it could reach the gods.
The shovel had cracked, of insatiable digging.
It cracked in the tomb, that deep down was laying.
He opened his eyes, reading with ardor:
''I knew you would come; i'm your beloved father.''
And i came back through time, through where i start'd digging,
And in the empty home, i felt like an illusion.
And i felt like breaking, and melting in Mordor,
And become in the night, the glow ring of horror..
. .
