Tales From The Inverted Womb

Alas, let me tell you about the beauty of the tomb
The stained glass, all viole (n) t, enhancing the gloom
Dark flowers, all withered, fragile and old
Yet, their perfume still lingers like a secret untold
Like a dream, or a memory that floats in this vault
Waiting for the moment it shall be recalled by some visitor
Maybe, who is seeking release from a strange kind of sadness
Some unknown disease
Its symptoms are madness, caused by the music in his head
Sung by an endless choir, called
"The Voices of the Dead".

It's his longing for silence, for the absence of sound
That will lead him the hidden path below the ground
Where he shall discover, through terror and through fear, behind black iron doors
Something is sleeping here
A little dead baby, a young boy lies kept
So fragile and frightened, crippled and sad.