In this gloomy-oriented protrusion their auras are so weak: we draw painful colours to scratch them so deep we prepare dreary waters for their empty twilight sleep Everything you waited for is (all) lost All the things you gave, they keep coming along we devise starved forests for their ravening sympathy we script their pathetic lives; a film in a railway of disease Dejecting and demoralising every psychic contributions; as parts of majestic gloom we create protrusions.