Besedila: Vintersorg. Att Bygga En Ruin.

Kollaps ar tillstandet vid alla koordinater
Nar ridan gar upp pa naivitetens teater

Nar moder jords talamod tryter,
Nar manniskan kvaver hennes blom
Da, varldsalltets valdiga kor ryter
Och forkunnar sin fatala dom

Fordarvets hammare slar med allt tyngre slag
Likt den i kakofonins smedja
Dar roken ligger tat bade natt och dag
Som en atbord for att vi smider odelaggelsens kedja

Elden spyr ut sitt vildroda sken
Och forbranner markens hjarta
Flammor som dansar over mortalitetens scen
Tills allt ar forbrant och holjt i svarta

En vidstrackt oken kryper fram dar det har boljat ett skimrande hav
Landskapets sjal ar forvand och sprackt
Av mansklig hand skulpteras sa naturens grav
Tills varlden pryds av kaosets ordensdrakt

Gra ar varje fjaril, kall ar varje aril
Och skuggor tranger bort ljuset
Skogar har borjat bloda, kvavd ar varje groda
Och tomt ar visdomskruset

Alla angar har mist sin forna prakt,
Enfaldighetsharpans strangar ljuder I denna trakt
Dar livloshetens stjarna brinner
Med ett kallt sken som vi aldrig overvinner

[English translation:]

TO BUILD A RUIN

Collapse is the state at all coordinates
When the curtains go up at the theatre of naivety

When Mother Earth's patience runs low,
When man suffocates her blossom
Then, the universe's enormous choir roars
And announces its fatal judgment

The hammer of ruin strikes with increasingly heavy blows
Like the one in the forge of cacophony
Where the smoke lies thick both night and day
As a gesture that we are forging the chain of ruin

Fire spews out its wild red light
And burns the heart of the land
Flames that dance over mortality's scene
Until all is burnt up and covered in blackness

A wide-streched desert creeps forth where once a glimmering sea billowed
The soul of the landscape is warped and cracked
Nature's grave is thus sculptured by human hands
Until the world is adorned by the garb of chaos

Every butterfly is grey, every fireplace is cold
And the shadows force the light away
Forests have begun to bleed, every crop is suffocated
And the cup of wisdom has been emptied

All meadows have lost their former splendour,
The strings of the harp of foolishness resound in this land
Where the star of lifelessness burns
With a cold light which we will never overcome