The green and yellow of the season render
the music to a symphony of dreams;
not a good year for daffodils, it seems,
but those that grew show off in perfect splendour.
The waves caress the shoreline in a tender
embrace, the propagating grassland teems
with merry birds, rejuvenating beams
of a forgotten sun awake the slender
daisies who had been sleeping for so long
in Winter's black and unforgiving shade,
the brambles that were dead are twice as strong,
and where the poet's viewing spot is laid,
he calmly listens to the skylark's song
- these are the days when tragedies are made.

Dark Ages cast their shadows on our dwelling,
beyond the shadows we can see no light,
and through the gloom hoarse voices are foretelling,
'With such a past your future won't be bright!'

Feel the wrath of night approaching
when the day is analysed
and the nightmares are encroaching
on a mind unsupervised.

From a conscience overflowing
with a billion words unsaid
by the world, your fear is growing
like a weed out of the dead.

Feel the night of wrath approaching
characters like me and you,
freeing demons we've been poaching
so our nightmares may come true.

Darkness ahead will find us
before we reach our aim;
forget the light behind us
way back from where we came.

Darkness ahead will blind us
before our eyes can see,
the chains we forged will bind us
before our destiny.

With red-hot blade thou carvest
monuments that won't last,
for presently we harvest
the future of the past.

I love dark corners. Though they say
the creatures of the dark
are evil, and to stay away
is best, I seek their spark.

They told me that all darkness hosts
a gathering of sons
of Lucifer of whom the ghosts
are the most harmless ones.

‘The dark is where I'll always roam –
I'm not afraid,’ I sneered,
‘because dark corners are my home,
and I'm the one who's feared.’

‘How black is the night?’ she asked him
as the carriage rode into the night.
‘More black than the coal in the furnace
that you saw when you lost your sight.’

‘How black is the night?’ she asked him
as he gently escorted her down.
‘More black than the carriage that brought us
to this forest so far from the town.’

‘How black is the night?’ she asked him
in a voice trembling more than before.
‘More black than the bog in the forest
holding so many secrets of yore.’

‘How black is the night?’ she asked him
as her pupils dilated with fear.
‘As black as the heart of the husband
who paid me to bring you here.’

Her pale breasts bring the fullness of nature
while her wings overshadow the land
as her lips go from blossom to blossom
and from evil to evil her hand.

And she stamps on the Earth as it trembles,
and her spirit is whiter than snow,
and she flies when we try to persuade her,
and she follows wherever we go.

At her feet we find cherries and berries,
from her hands we take vermouth and bile,
and she talks when there's no one to talk to,
and she smiles when there's nothing worthwhile.

And the touch of her wing carries poison,
and the clasp of her hand squashes coals,
and her hands clasp this world ever tighter,
and her wings touch our bodies and souls.

The old ruin oversees
hill and grove with all its trees;
ancient dwellers left their mark
and deceased, but when it's dark
one can see a dusky light
strangely, strangely in the night.

And that light casts shadows which,
blacker far than tar and pitch,
scare the hapless souls that find
out what's going on behind
those grey walls while beasts take flight
strangely, strangely in the night.

Those who meet them can't escape
their compelling force, change shape,
lose their selves and heed the call,
join the shadows in the hall
and forever share their plight
strangely, strangely in the night.

If you ever climb the hill
in that petrifying still
of a sombre night, stay clear
of the building where the drear
spirits of the past delight
strangely, strangely in the night.

When the world is growing darker,
when the rolling mist won’t clear
but instead is growing starker
and the once green woods seem drear,
we may think we see their faces
as they shift from spot to spot
like they haven’t found their places:
partly creatures, mostly not.

As the air is getting crisper,
we who happen to exist
think we hear its dwellers whisper
muffled warnings through the mist.
From a distance they may mentor
us and all our kin’s affairs;
while our world they cannot enter,
few of us will enter theirs.

With their shadow play the daunting
Dwellers of the Fog evoke
foreign memories of haunting
fates of which no gravestone spoke.
Yet their most intense endeavour
in our world won’t shift a nog;
there’s no reason we should ever
dread the Dwellers of the Fog.

On the roof of the world there are swallows
who all chirp from the depth of their breast,
there are sparrows and crows who are jousting
and the stork who is building his nest.
The odd squirrel collects the odd acorn
that got stuck in the tiles, and the sky
wears his friendliest blue for his creatures
with his light fluffy clouds sailing by.

In the garden most colourful flowers
are inviting the children to play,
and the living room sees happy people
as they rest at the close of the day.
Of all those who examine the basement
none comes back, yet the host stays polite;
he gets orders and thoughts in his bedroom
from the voices he hears in the night.

In the basement the gremlins are dwelling,
spraying carbon monoxide through cracks
in the ceiling; they poison the water
in the pipes and launch vermin attacks,
whisper slogans and chants through the floorboards
of the bedroom to kill and destroy:
they prepare for the day they'll take over
to get rid of all beauty and joy!

But even the gremlins are fearful
of the place that no tenant dare name,
for to think of (or mention!) the attic
brings disaster, misfortune and shame.
You may hear a strange scream, someone howling,
the strange silence that follows all woe -
but nobody knows what is up there,
and nobody wants to know.

Let’s stroll along the Stygian shore,
collecting shells of heroes’ selves
since death can trouble him no more
who drinks from Lethe and who delves
for meaning in the shallow waves
that lap upon the unmarked graves.

Eternal dusk has settled on
the beach that never saw a dawn
where people go when they have gone
to take the ferry or, withdrawn
from death because they lack their fare,
haunt yonder coastline in despair.

Let’s saunter at the riverbank,
the promenade of restless shades
whose hopes of finding closure sank
into the stream whose current fades
their memories; despite that loss
they’re still aware they cannot cross.

But now the stilly air grows cold
as Charon’s labour takes its toll,
and soon the wraiths will leave their fold;
let us conclude our evening stroll
before the shadows start to roam,
bathe in the river and walk home.

Unpopular and shunned by many,
he finally took on the task
of hiding his self to please the others
and borrowed an Etruscan mask.

Since then society accepted
him and rewarded his display,
and the Etruscan mask has made him
the person that he is today.

Sometimes when looking in the mirror,
he deeply ruminates on how
the mask has changed his life and wonders
what his own face would look like now.

Fear is a city. Its majestic gate
stands open and unguarded night and day,
yet no one dares approach it, for the fate
of those who leave remains unknown. They say
what lies beyond is worse than what we bear,
although they've neither been there nor have heard
a witness' tale, but all the same they swear
the fact no one returned is proof. Each word
is carefully selected to ensure
it cannot be misquoted, and at night,
to demonstrate their way of life is pure,
citizens don't draw curtains, and the light
stays on to show they've naught to hide as they
observe their neighbours with suspicion, and,
if those are interviewed and dragged away
from home to disappear, they understand
that their suspicions had been justified.

Fearians love their freedom and their pride.

Young Karen grows up on Entitlement Plaza
and plays in her parents' suspiciously warm
dense Garden of Vengeance for people who challenged
their privileges or failed to conform.

And over the years she got used to its odours;
by now she has learned to impassionately
enjoy the strong smell of its carrion flowers
and the sight of the leafless old hangman's tree.

So far she's been playing, but as she grows older,
she'll be taught how to put her opponents away,
and as her proud parents relax in the garden,
they tell her, 'All this will be yours one fine day.'

The daunting concrete building by the roadside
keeps swallowing its victims eagerly;
all parents have to come here, sacrificing
their little children to society.

As families approach the monstrous structure,
the guileless child, with an excited face,
may try to pick wild flowers from the footpath
but soon is pulled away to learn their place.

The child is dragged across the gaping archway
whose massive pillars that obscure the sky
are marked, one with conformitas and one with
obsequium in letters ten foot high.

Inside the individual child is mainstreamed
to function as desired and never shrink,
their drive and creativity discouraged,
and adults teach them how and what to think.

Stifling their curiosity and candour,
rewards and punishments are used to raise
dependence on external motivators
like gold stars, extra playtime, grades and praise.

Identifying with their institution,
most children will conform and will comply
while rebels are severely reprimanded
for any question that begins with why.

Eventually the children who were firmly
dragged into this grey barracks of dismay
march out as workers, soldiers, priests and housewives
and trample on the flowers in their way.

When a stranger enters Backwood,
doors are shut and curtains drawn,
for outsiders are unwelcome
and observed with fear and scorn.

When a stranger walks through Backwood,
silence reigns and all are grim,
but some children may be trying
just to catch a glimpse of him.

When a stranger exits Backwood,
life's routines are reapplied,
but some children may consider
that there is a world outside.

The clearest, the bluest, the coldest of all,
this indigo night leaves her brand on my soul,
the full moon implies with her mystical light:
there's always, there's always an end of the night.

The birches are pale in the light of the moon,
the swans are asleep in the cradle of June,
the river convinces me, moved by my plight:
there's always, there's always an end of the night.

For freedom I hunger, and freedom I'll find -
the peace of the churchyard enlightens my mind.
Between all the stones I hear voices that say:
the end of the night is not always the day.

Now the sea is calm and peaceful,
and the sunlight isn't shy,
and the quiet ocean mirrors
an unclouded azure sky.

But below the pleasant surface,
far beneath the photic zone,
lies a world of cold and darkness
most of which remains unknown.

Where Leviathan delights in
questionable merriments,
this is where we witness nature's
hideous experiments.

Countless monsters under pressure
have to feed and procreate,
and each ray of light is nothing
but a predatory bait.

Every time you meet new people,
notably the ones who strike
you as friendly, you should wonder
what their deep sea world is like.

Amongst unnatural slopes casting shadows
on its pastures whose ominous chill we can feel
lies a valley with studios, gardens and meadows
where everything functions and nothing is real.

The flowers are perfect in Uncanny Valley,
but nothing will ever grow or die;
its rivers and lakes look like liquid blue jelly,
and all living creatures perturbedly pass by.

The locals of Uncanny Valley are gentle
unless they've been programmed otherwise,
but, though they are mindless, there is something mental
about them which shows in their speech and their eyes.

Set up as a fairground of tourist attractions,
the village is shunned like a bog in the night,
for the residents' language, demeanour and actions
appear almost human, but still not quite.

They creep out the visitors while they are giving
the children a scare who then try to abscond;
their valley, my friend, is no place for the living,
and no one discovered what lies beyond.

Though it is not in season,
I weave - in vain, it seems -
my legacy of reason,
a basket of my dreams.

A briar of compassion,
a twig of common sense,
a wicker of discretion,
and weaving can commence.

A stalk of love is threaded
around the justice reed;
one part is to be added,
the final piece I need:

As future's spurned believer,
the greenest blade of hope
is chosen by the weaver,
a human allotrope.

But there are other baskets,
woven from toxic weeds
of human minds with gaskets
that make them fit their needs.

And once deep slumber found them
who rest where they were laid,
the toxic fumes surround them
that make them more afraid.

Nothing on earth is duller
than cowards' thoughts at night;
my dreams are all in colour,
their nightmares black and white.

And where the fearful tarry
at Lethe's potent streams,
nine pallbearers will carry
the casket of my dreams.

The First Domain is what we call
the real world as we understand
it, which includes and covers all
our deeds, experiences and
our observations; joy and strife
take turns and make a few things better
and others worse, and such is life:
the First Domain is home to matter.

The Second Domain is in our head
where in the many fields we'll find
the thoughts that we embrace or dread:
the Second Domain is home to the mind.
Here's where it happens: logic, dreams,
ideas, designs, imagination,
phobias, recollections, schemes,
nightmares, desires and inspiration.

The world is processed in our mind,
though, and our brains are real; that's how
the two domains are intertwined,
and as the borderlands allow
a lot of travel, near and far,
we may end up in mental pother,
sometimes not knowing where we are,
and sometimes longing for the other.

The Third Domain will end both these
in its inevitable void
and leave not even memories
of what we pondered or enjoyed.
There'll be no exit nor escape
once we have entered, and we'll never
regain our conscience or our shape;
the Third Domain will be forever.

Where the dreams go in the morning,
I have found the perfect spot
for our gaudy mausoleum,
lest we, too, should be forgot.

Thoughts and dreams here found their resting
place for all eternity;
most will never be remembered,
others only hazily.

There's no ground to hold their fading
remnants, no celestial sphere
doming over them, no light source
to reveal they're lying here.

Here, where everything is nothing,
where no living creatures roam,
where the dreams go in the morning,
we will build our future home.

The readers of his face put down their glasses;
closed books are seldomly learnt off by heart,
and the young student of a dean who passes
will take a course in how the wise depart.
And while the old man's family are stocking
up bread and memories to show they're strong,
the dreaded deathwatch beetle comes a-knocking
and keeps on knocking all night long.

And from the library it keeps on tapping
against the timber of the panelled wall
while in the study where the wives are napping
no unexpected sound is heard at all.
But where the educated men are mocking
those who are different, ignorant or wrong,
the dreaded deathwatch beetle comes a-knocking
and keeps on knocking all night long.

The master of the house, a grumpy miser,
had passed away, leaving nobody sad;
his sons were neither friendlier nor wiser
and got a cardboard coffin for their dad.

They even paid the ferryman with twopence
before they let him down and hoped he'd stay
where he'd been left but soon got their comeuppance,
for Charon only took him half the way.

Their father slept his well-deserved infernal
slumber throughout the day, but eerie sounds
emerged at night, caused by his strange nocturnal
activities around the house and grounds.

His ghostly howls would let the brothers snooze less
who'd toss and turn while trying to get rest;
their ear defenders happened to be useless,
and they became ill-tempered and distressed.

The servants left whom they despised sincerely,
their property was worthless now with all
that noise, and so the brothers were quite nearly
relieved when they received the boatman's call.

Our ship was sinking; as my body tumbled
gracelessly towards the English Channel’s ground,
I heard beneath the waves, entranced and humbled,
the sea’s most wonderfully eerie sound.

An orchestra of revenants was playing
down at the very bottom of the sea,
and, in the mood to meet fresh blood, the swaying
bandleader gently smiled and welcomed me.

His plane had crashed above, the sympathetic
spectacled spectre claimed, far from the shore;
since no one found his corpse, the energetic
artist was doomed to roam the ocean floor.

And even in the face of death the stage meant
much more to him than anything, he said,
so he obtained a permanent engagement
upon the platform of the Channel bed.

The awful tragedy occurred, he brooded,
three quarters of a century ago;
since then there have been others, he concluded
and handed me a cello and a bow.

For years he’d been recruiting all musicians
who died within these waters, and I took
my place amongst the host of aquaritions,
the submarine eidola man forsook.

And now we play eternally and cherish
our music, every day and every bar,
where, if you play an instrument and perish,
you’ll join Glenn Miller and His Orchestra.

The tallest in the world when it was built,
the Ryugyong Hotel that towers o'er Pyongyang
stands as a landmark of its country's fate
from which the North Korean luck has sprung.

Shaped like a pyramid, it's covered with
glass panels, flashy LED displays
and slogans that remind the populace
that they all live in paradisal days.

No one is welcome here. No one checks in,
no one checks out, and no one ever stayed
apart from Cold War demons that still haunt
the place, but no one's there to be afraid.

No funds for the interior exist
or have existed; the dictator's dream
hotel to stun the world was turned into
a propaganda board for the regime.

Conceived by blind ambition, jealousy,
megalomania and insanity,
today the grand Hotel of Doom remains
a hollow monument to vanity.

Underneath the dim fluorescent
lights he broods amidst the sets;
his reliable depressant
is the Ballroom of Regrets.

On his barstool he keeps sipping
his martinis, and he sees
all dispassionately skipping
wraiths of possibilities.

Opportunities arise and
float above the dance floor where
they can not be grasped, surmise and
vanish into thinner air.

Then his usually quiescent
spirit confidant appears
and presents him with the present
he’d ignored for many years.

As the organ keeps on playing
hollow tunes of long ago,
spectres of the past are swaying
to the music, to and fro.

Midst the eerily unpleasant
circle dances and duets,
he, embracing now his present,
leaves the Ballroom of Regrets.

Someone left the mighty gate
of the Otherworld ajar;
fearing he might not get far,
Sinh sneaked out one evening late.

In a basket boat he hied
to surprise before too long
his young widow in Haiphong,
just to learn that she had died.

So he hurried back to be
reunited with his spouse
in the gods’ ancestral house,
but the gate was closed, you see.

Since that night this most serene
revenant rows in despair
cross the Gulf of Tonkin where
he may be or not be seen.

When you retire and say good night
to face the time of day you dread,
the smile of Daniel Emilfork
will find you when you go to bed.

You know the shepherd on the scene
as you are counting pliant sheep:
the smile of Daniel Emilfork
will harrow your uneasy sleep.

You'll find the sandman in the vaults:
amongst the penetrating screams,
the smile of Daniel Emilfork
will permeate your troubled dreams.

After you wake and smell the tea,
presented in your favourite cup,
the smile of Daniel Emilfork
will follow you when you get up.

The count departed from his dreary
old castle's immorality;
he had increasingly grown weary
of life and immortality.

In search of death he dared to venture
into the sunlight just to find
it didn't work; he gnashed his denture
but wasn't set to change his mind.

And as he travelled on, not fearing
whatever was out there, he'd take
the forest roads, and in a clearing
he found a sharpened wooden stake.

So he lay on the ground and madly
aimed at his heart to ram it in,
but due to lack of force, the deadly
appliance barely pierced his skin.

The railroad tracks in Hamburg-Veddel
coaxed him to, rather than impale
himself to death, attempt beheadal;
he put his neck upon the rail.

But after days of lying idle
he left for yet another hike;
the train had failed the suicidal
count since the drivers were on strike.

He kept on trying with his daring
demeanour but to no avail;
to him it felt as if uncaring
fate had conspired to let him fail.

And so it hardly is surprising
that after all his fruitless strife
he ceased his efforts, realising
that immortality is for life.

When there's nothing to be done
or a silence has begun
or the waiting takes too long,
sometimes men break into song.

Singing, some believe, implies
innocence, and in their eyes
music cannot be a sin,
and they even may join in.

Those who do, as we can tell,
falsely think that all is well
and that nothing can go wrong
when a man breaks into song.

Once Johnny took his dating knife
of which he always made good use
and went to town to find a wife
(it didn't really matter whose).

And in a seedy pub he found
the woman he was looking for;
the lovebirds didn't hang around
for long and soon went out the door.

They walked across the park and strolled
to the botanic garden where
the pallid moonlight touched their cold
faces in winter's chilly air.

He gazed upon her sallow throat
and planned his move; in a gentle tone
he ushered her to one remote
alcove where they could be alone.

Embracing the unfaithful wife
as the foreboding sky turned bleak,
Johnny took out his dating knife,
cut off a rose and kissed her cheek.

A demon on a mission,
too hideous to tell,
the red-eyed apparition
that you have called from Hell,

The Detox Man will find you
when you're asleep at night,
and he'll sneak up behind you
to wake you with a fright!

The Detox Man will get you
just when you think that things
could not get worse; he'll set you
straight with the fits he brings.

He's utterly appalling,
unwavering and grim;
you almost feel like calling
the beast that conquers him.

The Detox Man will take you
where no man went before,
he'll burn and chill and break you,
and then you'll burn once more.

He'll torture, poke and sting you,
and once he's through with you,
the Detox Man will bring you
back to the world you knew.

The bells of St Columbus
have tolled for me: I burn
the bridge of life, becoming
a pilgrim of no return.

The halls of St Columbus
are teeming with the seeds
of philosophic flowers
nobody ever heeds.

The yard of St Columbus
is haunted by the shades
of those who once were human
and now are renegades.

And if you keep on doing
the things your teachers do,
the bells of St Columbus
will soon ring out for you!

Oh daughter, my dear daughter,
you look so sick and pale:
where have you spent the night, and
what happened to your veil?

Oh father, my dear father,
I walked the woods till dawn,
the night was wild and stormy -
that's how the veil was torn.

Oh daughter, my dear daughter,
it was a quiet night:
what happened in the forest,
and why are you so white?

Oh father, my dear father,
I didn't see the thorn
when I ran through the bushes -
that's how the veil was torn.

Oh daughter, my dear daughter,
you shouldn't tell a lie
to your belovèd father
the moment that you die.

Oh father, my dear father,
to Helios in the morn
the rose must ope her petals -
that's how the veil was torn.

They stood together in the night
to watch the stars afar,
and as they held each other tight
they saw a falling star.

The moon was hiding his disguise
and shared their mutual bliss:
they made their wish and closed their eyes
and kissed the longest kiss.

Dawn seized the land without a sound,
the woods and fields lay still
and silent as her husband found
their bodies on the hill.

Where the forest meets the river
in whose stream no fish dare swim,
where the storm clouds never lifted
stands the Tower of Abyme.

No one knows the man who built it;
while its spire impales the sky,
its drear dungeons reach far deeper
than the daunting tow’r is high.

In the dale beyond the forest
where the tower casts its doom,
villagers who shun its shadow
live a life of dread and gloom.

Here no robin greets the sunrise,
here no blackbird hails the day,
and the birds who somehow get here
turn around and fly away.

Oftentimes the eerie silence
with its large Medusa’s Head
that surrounds the place is broken
by the voices of the dead.

And the spectres of the living
hover o’er the river’s shores
as the tower stands in twilight
and the peasants bolt their doors.

And the future’s bleak reflection
is appearing on the dim
watchman’s pane, the only window
in the tower of Abyme.

On this dusky autumn evening
thousands march across the dale,
following the tower’s shadow
as the tired sun sets sail.

And the undisputed leader
holds the symbol of their faith
as the multitude approaches,
guided by their founder’s wraith.

Chanting women tear their dresses,
crying children who are dragged
by their mothers stumble forward,
being forced and being nagged.

Closer now and ever closer
to their destiny, the crowd
marches to the pipers’ chorus
to fulfil the oath they vowed.

Welcomed by the hostile guardians,
singing many a joyful hymn,
the procession is descending
in the Tower of Abyme.

Westerly winds gently stir the papyrus
growing along the disconsolate Nile;
he who was Horus and now is Osiris
enters the tomb as his enemies smile.

But as the evening progresses, his royal
birds leave their hideout, a cloud-covered den,
allies he knows as unfailingly loyal:
Iry-Hor’s falcons will fly once again.

Soon their enchantingly ominous shadows,
sent by their king in nocturnal flight,
cast on Abydos’ lush gardens and meadows,
blacken the dark like a night in the night.

Once they have spotted the face of a traitor,
Iry-Hor’s falcons, with wings tucked in close,
swiftly stoop down on the agitator,
wreaking the pharaoh’s revenge on his foes.

As they’re confronted by Iry-Hor’s chorus,
torn by the talons of vengeance and shred
quickly by beaks that are speaking for Horus,
they will arrive where the living don’t tread.

The undaunted Roman soldiers
under Rullianus soon
had defeated the Etruscans
by the early afternoon.

Sutrium was liberated;
some survivors tried to flee
but were hastily pursued by
fearless Roman cavalry.

As they headed for the mountains,
trying to escape their lot,
all those unafraid brave heroes
chased them down and spared them not.

But a number of their party
took, in order to get home,
to the large Ciminian Forest
twixt Etruria and Rome.

'After them!' the consul bellowed
as the valiant warriors' chief
and rode onwards, but his order
was received with disbelief.

'You know well, throughout the empire
not a Roman can be found
who would enter this dense forest
where no sunlight meets the ground.'

'There's no path, and oaks and beeches
yield no space to let you pass
while the gloom leaves you unable
to spot vipers in the grass.'

'This domain is full of demons
and, apparent from afar,
even darker than the dreaded
murky German forests are.'

'With the treetops in the heavens,
there's no light that you could see
but Etruscans, other devils
and wild boars behind each tree.'

'Cease your childish superstitions,'
said the consul. 'You are males,
yet you sound like timid housewives,
scared by nasty fairy tales.'

He addressed his frightful soldiers
with a voice intent and clear,
'I will take my slave and show you
that there's nothing you should fear.'

And they gazed in awe and horror
as the tenebrously grave
Ciminian Forest swallowed
Rullianus and his slave.

He speaks words I dare not mention
while his sombre wings are spread,
and the world should pay attention
when the raven calls the dead.

He has counted, every morning,
all the tears and feathers shed,
and it is a dire warning
when the raven calls the dead.

Yet it seems there's no salvation
for the world we leave ahead;
it's too late for restoration
once the raven calls the dead.

Preceded by the scent of frankincense
and echoes of an eerie plainchant choir,
the pitch-black spirit hailing from the dense
domain of darkness votaries admire
materialised before my very eyes.
‘I’ll grant you any wish on Earth if you
will pledge your soul to me on your demise;
whatever you command me, I will do.’
Knowing there’s no hereafter I agreed:
‘Let me be happy, that is all I need.’

‘How happy? All you have to do is claim
your prize, be it adventurous extremes,
vast riches, power, Keira Knightley, fame
or fortune well beyond your wildest dreams.’ -
‘I just want to be happy,’ I replied.
‘Then let me know how to achieve that goal;
by revelations others were denied,
a long and healthy life before your soul
is taken or by making you a star
who is adored by groupies near and far?’

‘I just want to be happy,’ I’d contend
with a firm voice and knew he understood:
‘To make you happy, I would have to end
all human suffering, my livelihood.
With this you have outwitted me, I trust;
I’ve found the teacher whom I never sought
for lessons I don’t need, and now I must
retract my offer since I never thought
that any person, may they rest or live,
could ask for more than I intend to give.’

Now the days grow short and colder,
and the autumn winds blow hard
o’er the pumpkin fields of Aztlan
with apparent disregard.

And the Hunter’s Moon keeps shining
dimly on the frozen ground
of the pumpkin fields of Aztlan
where no creature can be found.

But at midnight chosen children
harvest them amidst the breeze
to be used in Aztlan’s sombre
seasonal festivities.

Carpe noctem! We'll be able
to go out at fading light.
Claim your bodies and get ready:
carpe noctem, seize the night!

One more deadly year is over,
and eventually we can
get back to and at the living,
thanks to Donn's great master plan.

Please don't be a grave potato
who stays home all night to shun
this one opportunity and
thus miss out on all the fun.

Do not stay inside your coffin
to await the break of day,
let's be merry and profusely
gather victims while we may.

Visit everyone who ever
wronged you for a little fright
or more sinister chastisements:
carpe noctem, seize the night!

It was the night of Samhain; white
and thoughtful was the moon,
and at the river sat Marie
and hummed a lovers' tune.

The wood was cold, the raven croaked,
the air was fresh and mild.
The waters parted; from the waves
her husband rose and smiled.

'Belovèd Edward! Do you come
from Heaven or from Hell?
What's God, what are his angels like,
and do they feed you well?

'And if you'd like to meet a friend,
would you be free to go?
Do you have knowledge of the things
you always longed to know?' -

'What makes you think that all is clear
after your final breath?
How silly is it to believe
you're wiser after death.

'Here is no road to walk upon,
no guide to Fiddler's Green,
no angels come to show the way,
no Lord has yet been seen.

'Here is no Heaven and no Hell,
here is no Golden Shore:
we walk in darkness night and day,
just as we did before.

'Our souls live on, and still we have
to struggle and to strive;
we don't know more 'bout afterlife
than you do know 'bout life.

'Our souls live on - we have no choice
to be or not to be;
our souls live on - and from this life
no death will set us free!' -

'Oh Edward, how I miss your love,
your kindness and your kiss!'
And, stepping closer to the shore,
she put her hands in his.

'You married me 'cause I was rich;
you killed me for the same
reason - I want to take revenge,
and this is why I came.'

He kissed her gently and embraced
his spouse and held her tight,
'From now on I will cling to you
till death do us unite!'

He pressed Marie against his breast,
his smile was cold and grim,
and where the river meets the sea,
he pulled her down with him.

After he flogged his lazy serfs who hadn't reached
the quota set, the lord decided to unwind
and brought their daughters to his quarters who beseeched
him not to make them pay their fathers' debts in kind.

And in the evening his entire family
gathered to celebrate the feast of Samhain in
the mansion's banquet hall, to wine and dine with glee
and honour and remember their departed kin.

That night a host of ghosts appeared and claimed outright,
'You've starved, exploited, tortured, even killed us, thus
empowering us all to take revenge tonight,
so we have risen up to take you down with us.'

The dawn surprised the wraiths as suddenly they basked
in daylight; with a smirk the lord just watched them strive
as they disintegrated, and he smugly asked,
'Why did you not rise up while you were still alive?'

When at dusk the mermaids murmur
and the fairies all come out
to wreak mischief, when a firmer
wind embraces those about
to encounter this unholy
night, their fate will follow slowly.

No one knows what they are facing,
and when daybreak comes around,
by their folk who had been pacing
all night long they may be found,
leaving nothing but a gory
fear-inspiring horror story.

After he had watched her dancing
with a soldier in the hall,
laughing while not even glancing
at her man, he left the ball.
And the Novachord kept playing
Irrlicht as the storm clouds veiled
Longdendale's full moon while, straying
in the wilderness, he paled.

On the moor his concentration
failed him as he sought his way
home, and his predestination
led him more and more astray.
And the Novachord kept playing
Irrlicht as the storm clouds veiled
Longdendale's full moon while, straying
in the wilderness, he paled.

Soon the vault of darkness coated
vale and mountains in the night,
but upon the ridge he noted
an emerging gentle light.
And the Novachord kept playing
Irrlicht as the storm clouds veiled
Longdendale's full moon while, straying
in the wilderness, he paled.

'Don't burn kelp once summer's over,' Bruce was warned repeatedly,
'for it's then that our beloved gentle Mither o' the Sea
is defeated, when the creatures she had bound regain control,
and the bottom of the ocean will release the Nuckelavee.

'Burning kelp assaults his senses, and the terrifying beast
soon will seek you out, galloping from its lair back in the east;
when you see the fleshless centaur with two heads, two arms, four legs
and four flippers in the distance, you'll be scared, to say the least.'

Bruce dismissed their superstitions. When his seaweed fire was lit
at the cragged cliffs of Orkney and the smoke rose from his pit,
he could hear a sound like thunder coming towards him; he looked up
at the Nuckelavee and, frightened and repulsed, he stared at it.

'You can kill it with fresh water,' all the islanders around
him were shouting, so he slowly reached inside his coat and found
his small water flask and tried to open it with trembling hands,
but the fear had paralysed him, and he dropped it on the ground.

With a piercing neigh the monster reared and furiously hurled
fire from its angry eye, and everybody's head soon swirled,
listening to the manic laughter coming from its human head
while its equine head keeps breathing pestilence across the world.

There, in yonder mysterious clearing,
stands a daisy who’s shunned and who’s feared;
all the other adorable daisies
around her have long disappeared.

The buttercups here keep their distance
from the flower who suffers no peer,
turn their heads from the source of their worries,
and not one of them dares to grow near.

Few forest dwellers have ventured
too close and got caught in her spell,
but those who discovered her secret
are no longer able to tell.

An aura of unspoken terror
haunts this place, and all creatures evade
the clearing where evil is thriving
in the birches’ foreboding shade.

But once common sense has triumphed
and the human cerebrum grown,
when the moon finds her place in the heavens
will the daisy’s dark secret be known.

Rain keeps knocking at my heart,
hardening with every blow
as its kernel falls apart
and the ashes cease to glow.

The day is bleak and bleak the night
in which my gods embark,
and every fleeting ray of light
intensifies the dark.

No home below, no home above,
I roam this barren mire,
continuing my search for love
like a salmon his quest for fire.

Rain keeps knocking at my heart,
hardening with every blow
as its kernel falls apart
and the ashes cease to glow.

When at dusk your shadow lingers
in the forests where we wait,
we, the sombre Stygian singers,
sound the hollow note of Fate.

Zeus remains our trusted drummer
as the force of Day takes flight:
we're the birds of little summer,
we're the harbingers of night!

Who are these that ride in the shadows
with the sign we all know on their palms,
those whose eyes and whose bodies are hollow,
with the ten-horned child in their arms?

Who the horses that leave not a hoofprint
in the snow or the sand or the mud,
who don't even slow down in their gallop
when up to the bridle in blood?

And, pray tell, who are these that are watching
and conclude this occurrence must mean
it's the end of the world; what, I wonder,
would they think if they'd see what I've seen?

A sombre rainbow in black skies
deluminates the sable rose
where my tenacious raven flies.

The spirits of the night arise,
and dusky storm clouds now disclose
a sombre rainbow in black skies.

As Charon sits on deck and sighs,
the murky Stygian current flows
where my tenacious raven flies.

I trace his journey with my eyes
and wish that I could trace the crow's;
a sombre rainbow in black skies

Ushers me to its end - there lies
the full allowance of my woes
where my tenacious raven flies.

I know the news this scene implies:
the vision of my future shows
a sombre rainbow in black skies
where my tenacious raven flies!

Evening. Darkness. Midnight. Fear.
He sat. He lit a fag. He spoke.
Spoke to the wind. The trees. The gentry.
Far from the woods. The wolves were howling.
And suddenly thunder and lightning and horror
was filling the place, and the beasts ran in terror
but could not escape their destruction and death!
The storm broke the trunks of invisible trees
and shattered the rocks and the faith in the gods,
leaving a trace of blood behind him
as he moved eastwards to the city.
He sat. He lit a fag. He spoke.
Midnight. Morning. Sunrise. Fear.

Wherever there is concord,
wherever there is need,
wherever bards are encored,
she spreads the evil seed.

She preys on others' slackness,
the bird who everywhere
into the dark brings blackness
and to the dead despair.

She angrily raged through the
island with her shrill voice
and finally came to the
weird county of my choice.

But she's a bird of passage:
once my ordeal is through,
with one more urgent message
I'll send her back to you.

The full moon's silver bowl is poured
into the indigo of night,
sinister brightness drowns the Earth
with houses dead and graves alive,
and Death is dancing on the roof.

The wolf obeys the lunar call,
the raven preys upon the rose,
the silent ocean claims her share;
the air is still, the air is cold,
and Death is dancing on the roof.

His hollow eyes are watching us:
they follow every living thing,
and patiently he takes his aim,
and suddenly he strikes his blow,
as Death is dancing on the roof.

The sharp blade of his scythe now glints
intensely through the purple night,
his cape is blacker than our fate,
his drinking horn filled to the brim,
as Death is dancing on the roof.

Our hearts had been caught in a deadlock
when Cupid was making his rounds,
so we married out of wedlock
and met in the breeding grounds.

And when gently we kiss one another
as we say our goodbyes in the street,
there's a part that remains with each other,
like the part that stays home when we meet.

When they sleep, the ones we did marry,
and the cry of the heron sounds,
by the light of the torch that we carry
we meet in the breeding grounds.

The makers of nightmares lie hidden
in the deepest folds of the brain
to which entry is strongly forbidden
for mortals awake and sane.

And they make all their nightmares to measure
to suit their weak victims and sneer
while ensuring each innocent pleasure
turns to morbid irrational fear.

And they send them out without error,
and when, in the open or house,
the recipient panics in terror,
the makers of nightmares carouse.

The Paradise of Darkness
lies at the barren shore
of the fetches' isle whose starkness
welcomes the weak and sore.

Where crows and vultures flourish
in many a sapless tree,
all dreams that you may nourish
become reality.

Old ghost ships in their rancour
spread terror, dread and fear;
a lot of vessels anchor,
but none departs from here.

You'll lie upon the rubble's
rough surface sunlight shuns,
forgetting your small troubles
since you found bigger ones.

It always is December
round the dark tow'r of rue,
and in its darkest chamber
your nightmares will come true.

I.

Upon Mount Casablanca Satan stood
and felt the joyful sting of nightly lust,
he watched the planets turning into dust
by love, and he agreed that it was good.
He'd only have to think the word and could
harvest the billion votaries who trust
his foe and brother, but he knows he must
not hurry nor delay. One day he would
reap what he sowed with all its roots and plant
a belladonna herb with rampant twigs
to feed his bird who constantly would chant
beside the soothing ripple of the Styx;
now fifty stars perform at his command,
but soon there'll be six hundred and sixty-six.

II.

I'm back again: the Raven eats my heart.
So scarlet is the flower of the rose,
black is the stem and black the leaves; who knows
how it began? The Raven eats my heart.

I was a man; the Raven eats my heart.
The rose's full grave petals will disclose
her sweet and bitter scent to me. Who grows
this poison then? The Raven eats my heart.

To feel the thorn, to feel the faithful thorn!
And then again, forever to depart
from what we never leave; who isn't torn
between his will to live and Beauty's mart,
who's there who never wished that he were born,
or always did? The Raven eats my heart.

III.

Black clouds obscure the moon, the night is rough,
and I expected her. The cold winds blow,
she waits for me upon her stone; we know
that for a life a lifetime is enough.

Blue eyes that spark amongst the blackest fluff
invite me to the hideout of the Crow:
she nods her head, persuading me to go,
and in a bracing gale my spirits luff.

She looks like many a sorceress who hollowed
out my entire heart right from the core
and tore my senses and my flesh and swallowed
my mind and soul in happier days of yore.
The Crow departs; I follow as I followed
black shocks and azure eyes so oft before.

Shadows fall, the sun's declining
far behind the quiet ocean,
and my heart, my heart is pining
for the land that no one knows.
I smell its scent and tremble with emotion:
who'll bring me there? The Raven or the Rose.

Western winds are softly blowing
from the undiscovered haven,
and my love, my love is growing
for the land I haven't seen.
I hear the voices of the Rose and Raven:
I’ll bring you there where no one's ever been.

I am tired of learning, teaching;
Earth and sun and life are hollow,
and my hand, my hand is reaching
for the land where no one goes.
And yet, and yet I know not whom to follow:
who'll bring me there - the Raven or the Rose?

And no one knows, and no one knows
what happened in the moor,
but where the rose of dolour grows
wait graves for rich and poor.

And no one hears, and no one hears
that petrifying yell,
for where appears the queen of spears
no one will live to tell.

And no one feels, and no one feels
the anguish of the lad:
with iron heels the lady steels
herself to crush his head.

And no one sees, and no one sees
her kneeling in the mud:
a gentle breeze now blows to please
as she sucks up the blood.

Easily Thor's wrath is kindled, and amidst Valhalla's bustle,
all the way across the brindled sky he'll send his storm cloud bird
while the veil of dim foreboding drapes our troubled world; he'll hustle
to resolve the mortals' goading and ensure that Thor is heard.

When a chieftain disobeyed the solemn deity, his feathered
friend sought out him who dismayed the god of Bilskirnir. His shrill
warbling echoed through the nightly firmament as storm clouds gathered;
he proceeded to forthrightly implement his master's will.

With the storm clouds growing longer to secure the foe's damnation
and the gusts becoming stronger with each beating of his wings,
he, just like a fiery arrow, soon approached his town's location
via the extensive barrow where the freemen held their things.

Lightning struck, and rolling thunder from his throat alarmed the humble
dwellers of the hamlet; under him the roofs were blown away
by the savage unabated gale as citizens would stumble
from the ruins, agitated by the punitive display.

What appeared an everlasting storm eventually diminished,
and he gleefully is casting one last glance upon the hexed
Viking village that will never stand again; his job is finished,
and the robin flies wherever Thor's fierce wrath assigns him next.

When the Book of Two Curses was opened
and the name he had sought wasn’t found,
the old Doom God demanded his hammer
from his helpers who’d gathered around.

And he added the name to the volume
with his chisel; as everyone knows,
what is written on birch bark is final,
so his men shook with fear as he rose.

There were no volunteers for the journey
they all dreaded as servants prepared
Ukko’s chariot for the conveyance
of the punishment he had declared.

Soon the Doom God was ready to travel
and keep his vindictive vow
with his axe and his sacred companion,
his own ladybird called Ukko’s Cow.

But the God of the Heavens, of Thunder
and Lightning, of Death and Rebirth
cannot travel without an ex-mortal
by his side to descend down to Earth.

Those around him who long had departed
from that place were in no way inclined
to go back and drew lots to determine
who would have to return to mankind.

(to be sung to this tune)

Once I read of the city of Salem
where the children of God do His will,
where good Christians embrace His commandments
as they gather atop the small hill,
hang the women who have been obnoxious
and extermine the young and the old;
though so much I may hear of its beauty,
not the half have I ever been told.
Not the half have I ever been told,
not the half have I ever been told,
not the half of God’s love and His glory,
not the half have I ever been told.

Once I heard of the godfearing city
where His faithful disciples despise
those who differ and weigh their opponent
down with stones for three days till he dies.
The unrighteous will be extirpated
and the name of Almighty extolled:
though so much I may hear of its beauty,
not the half have I ever been told.
Not the half have I ever been told,
not the half have I ever been told,
not the half of God’s love and His glory,
not the half have I ever been told.

Once I saw God’s own city in terror
where the laws He provided still stand,
and each citizen has to be fearful
of the neighbours who covet his land.
All it takes is but one accusation,
and your future may never unfold;
though so much I may hear of its beauty,
not the half have I ever been told.
Not the half have I ever been told,
not the half have I ever been told,
not the half of God’s love and His glory,
not the half have I ever been told.

I met the Reaper as he strolled
across the village green,
harvesting early in the year,
and more than he’d foreseen.

Some struggled not to look at him,
some smiled and claimed he’s odd,
and many of our dignitaries
gave him a friendly nod.

I tapped him on the shoulder and,
incautiously, I guess,
asked him about the unrevealed
secret to his success.

‘Why isn’t anybody scared
of you, why don’t they flee?’ -
‘All those who notice me assume,
“He can’t be after me.”’

In the ballroom of Erebus night lasts forever,
and no human nor shadow had ever a ball
where the orchestra of the departed are playing
their sad eldritch airs to an empty great hall.

When the nightmarish concert is over, the master
of the realm of black darkness will take a deep breath,
and he'll open the book, and he'll tell each musician
in which land of his empire they'll live out their death.

That day or that night when you'll finally get there
to be told in which part of his realm you will stay
after having presented your last piece of music
in his cavernous ballroom, what tune will you play?

We live in Horror Castle which has all
resources necessary to provide
for everyone inside yet cannot hide
onlookers starving in the banquet hall.

Its torture chambers, kept out of our sight,
house most inhabitants against their will;
we do not have to watch them, but their shrill
screams from the dungeon keep us up at night.

There is an air of meek despair about
the place; the pungent smell of burning flesh
carries across the courtyard where the fresh
child sacrifices raise the master's clout.

But we are safe as long as we don't ring
alarm bells, for we're in the master's wing.

Mankind today has gathered for the last
picnic on the event horizon, keen
to meet each other as the grunge bands blast
their morbid tunes across the busy green.

Marshmallows roasting on a friendly fire,
neat stalls that offer many a souvenir,
a marching band and a large children's choir
contribute to the festive atmosphere.

Each brings their own. Some bring a lot and share
with those whose portions look too minuscule,
giving away whatever they can spare,
but those are the exception, as a rule.

Some bring large truckloads through the open gates
with food from every corner of the Earth,
heap what they need onto their massive plates
and burn the rest to demonstrate their worth.

Many arrive with nothing after noon,
hoping for crumbs that others willingly
offer to feed them but are very soon
mowed down by festival security.

Someone attacks another with a fork
for looking at her sushi, and nearby
one group is massacred for eating pork,
another for the patch they occupy.

Some claim to eat the meat of their deity
and slaughter those refusing to partake
in their grim rituals while angrily
burning all their opponents at the stake.

I slowly finish up my lobster stew
as night falls on the fated venue where,
like after every proper barbecue,
the smell of burning flesh wafts through the air.

Picnic survivors party far and wide
and wave hello to the future, though their eyes
face different ways, contending on which side
of the event horizon the future lies.

Why can't we all just fade instead of dying
and thus remain, our nature to defend,
true to ourselves instead of simply lying
on deathbeds, waiting for the rapid end?

Not yet departed, I would be there still,
but you'd be seeing less of me each day,
just like an evanescing phantom, till
at last I would completely fade away.

Where the shadows have no caster,
the horizon has no sky,
and where no one is the master
of his fate, there you and I
soon will settle – this will be
home for all eternity.

Let us hope we'll be provided
coins to pay the ferryman,
that we may, serenely guided,
cross the river so we can
reach the realm where, as they say,
life has thousand shades of grey.

Past the guard hound to the palace
where at last we'll have to face
the unmerciful and callous
judge who never lost a case
and whose sentence for each soul
ne'er includes the word parole.

In this wasteland they employ less
light than in a dungeon cell;
hand in hand we'll walk the joyless
barren fields of Asphodel,
drink our Lethe from the source
without zest, without remorse.

Soon we'll be - it may upset us -
joined by friends and those we love;
the Above will then forget us,
as we will forget Above.
What remains, for all it's worth,
are our handprints on the Earth.

'All the poems have been written,'
Odin said on Judgment Day,
'let the elegists fall silent,
send the lyricists away.

'Closed be the accounts narrating
our unenviable past;
not a verse or line be added
to the body we amassed.

'Nothing hence shall be recorded
of the things to come,' quoth he,
'for the future if there is one
till we reach our destiny.'

In the final battle creatures,
men and gods en masse expire,
and the human-weary planet
turns into a ball of fire.

Soon the ever-waning twilight
by the night is overthrown,
and a different darkness settles
on a world we thought we'd known.

It is just like our Almighty
Father said on Judgment Day:
all the poems have been written,
there is nothing left to say.