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Põhjast
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The Man from the Past
The venom of thought is sharper than swords,
one word may well destinies mould.
One glance or a purposeful frown may suffice
for the terminal act to unfold.
The vile ones consider you overly vile,
the worthless have doubt in your worth.
The people entrapped in the furnace of hell
curse you deeper yet into the earth.
Your birth is your fault, your loyalty – sin.
No place in this world is your home.
A wanderer, thirsty, forsaken and lost
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this desert you're destined to roam.
As an anchor you fall and are left thus to hang
– left to hang, void of warmth and of life.
Like a sun upon vacuum you'll finally set,
to the bosom of slow-thawing ice.
You are followed by clouds that blacken the sky,
and, before they begin to ascend,
will pour down all their earnest and venomous tears,
as if mourning the death of a friend.
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