I, death, stood on a plateue, a burning wind licked me. Screaming ghouls, djins and wolves wailed from the darkland.
I stood on a plateue, laid towards me a cold frail hand.
I shuddered, a man as thin as ghost smiled. He must be a slave of cubicles, I thought.
His soul fragmented into pieces, his eyes ran wild.
I asked him his name, he smiled. A nameless wizard, the one who could not find livestock.
Should I cry, should I mock.
The ghouls, the djins came closer to the dry brittle graves, wailed and spat their nightly cavil.
The man sat quietly, an unemployed no one of a city breathing smoke.
A ghastly thin man, an unfortunate crying broke.
Said he, dear death, bring me a cigarette. And kill me, kill.
A tiny insect crawled on the grave, and bit the man. Its tiny mandibles tore the brittle flesh of the man, he bled.
He looked at the grave and wailed, it is the grave of whom he wed.
What have you lost, I asked him. The wolves licked his thin limbs, the ghouls invited him in a land of eternal exile.
He croaked, write a book on my dying, make a film.
I left him in the graves, his face covered in granules of wet mud.
His body reincarnated in a parasite of earth, I smelled blood.
Halloween flickered with the dawn, ghouls departed in their thick sediments of mold.
I etiolated in the air, turning into graveyard cold.
Feat. Serenity by Lennart Altgenug
