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Candlemass - Epistle No. 81

Mark how our shadow, Mark Movits mom frere
One small darkness encloses
How gold and purple that shovel there
To rags and rubbish disposes

Charon beckons from tumultuous waves
Then trice this ancient digger of graves
For thee ne'er grapeskin shall glister
Wherefore my Movits come help me to raise
A gravestone over our sister

Even desirous and modest adobe
Under the sighing branches
Where time and death, a marriage forebode
Twixt beauty and ugliness ashes

To thee ne'er jealousy findeth her way
...
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