Cadaveria

My life is made of emotions,
passions and horrors, 'cause when you truly
live you can even fall into deep pain
My bed is made of small fresh leaves,
moving slowly like a requiem
My temple is made of dark gloomy trees,
coming loose along a black oval path
My chant is a desperate and irreverent elegy,
composed in honour of those who have no reserve and fear
Hordes of maleficent and false sins come back upon me.
Shall I ever let my mind wander over the sad effect
this filthy disease causes to my limbs and to my heart?