Return

The pendulum of the clock swings in the fixed orbit of doubt one going, one return. one going, one return. Bearing the hard cross of loneliness on a wounded shoulder the burning repeated amid the fire of terror. In the dry plains, the bewildered with eyes weary of the storm of sand and wind with clenched claws dig into the earth. Corpses stir in their graves. and the dry plains fill with the cold, stinking dead - hanging from their frames, shreds of flesh and sacks of worms - the bewildered become embraces come dancing with the dead, go to sleep with the dead, and swiftly swallow the carcasses of mice and worms. End of loneliness! End of the bleeding of doubt! Beginning of faith with eyes closed and silent. The pendulum swings the pendulum of the clock swings again...