By Yasen Vedrin
(Mortal Remains)
Do not lament, when failing to succeed,
You find yourself within this gloomy space.
The throne of winners is corrupt, indeed,
Its price is like a stench of dark disgrace.
Only the hunchbacks rule the earth tonight,
With glances fixed upon their paradise.
After their heavy bows to snake in sight,
They curl up tight, forever paid by vice.
No one lifts up their head to God above,
By earthly treasures frozen and confined,
And everyone drags chains, devoid of love,
In which their captived spirit stays resigned.
And who is then the one we should deplore,
When viewed beyond the final, silent gate?
The purchased glory fades forevermore,
With cunning conscience kept for judgment's fate.
So powerful are the iron bars that bind
The fallen souls the prince of darkness holds,
That open fields make paupers glad to find
The freedom from the cash and power molds.
To be an outsider just means, indeed,
That you already stand on other tracks,
And you have no misfortunes left to bleed
From bowing down to Satan on your backs.
For the prince gives, but later takes it back…
Deceived — the souls become his final part
In deep abysses, invisible and black
For those who lived with sin inside their heart.
For this blind world condemns to banishment
The ones over whom it has no power or reign…
While others — with a Judas noose intent —
Are harvest for the ultimate villain's gain.
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