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