Take my hand in the old 'theatre of seven hells' A ferry that bowed its wings We call her: 'moon by day' Life - a book of painful tongue that hurts our ears Flowers of the end, their seed shall grow Your breath shall be my coat The underworld is, oh, so cold The dead don't feel chill But please, hold me warm The aweful night has gone; what lay before.. We can't remember Even morpheus has drowned in the lament Of his own weeping shadow..