This is my story,
of my silent life.
Desolation cries out.
The inflicted malice.

This is an old story,
Authored by loneliness.
Each wound weeps,
and tells me its tale.

This is my chronicle of chronicles.
A legacy without legends
I pick out thorns from my memories
I am living in the shadow of falling walls

Hatred sings in my garden of horror
The rain of death showers all the time
My eyes dance in emptiness
There is no one, no one at all
How long can I wait in this void
There is no one, no one at all
Neither close nor distant

There is a fear flowing,
It is saying something to me
I pick out thorns from my memories
I am living in the shadow of falling walls

The sounds of my heartbeats,
Are the voices that keep me alive.
But it swallows my blood
And slaughters my dreams

I am now secluded and deserted,
But I have the vigour and strength.
There is hope tangled in my memories,
there is a Hope of LIFE!

This heart is a forest of memories;
This heart is surrounded by hatred and disgust.
I pick out thorns from my memories;
I am living in the shadow of falling walls.