What can ever bloom again,
when the power to live is missing,
dryness sows hate inside of my heart.
Fading lust,
a flower made of stone,
forgotten in being.
Broken of life,
disintegrated of illusion.
The dread lets me feel the force of love,
to refuse my power,
I hate the thirst of love.
It will judge me, judge me until death. Sunday means flesh.