Septic Flesh - Pale Beauty Of The Past

The mist unfolds its veil as the night falls in the forest The moisty wind forces the trees to sing their sorrow. For centuries they are standing still like a petrified dream. Traped bodies in a wooden web, tall towers of another epoch. This sweet melancholy that is brought by the precious memory The Pale Beauty of the Past is kept in the whisper of the wind. Only the fragile heart can understand the charm of the old. The best things in life are those we can't have yet, still we hope. Blessed will be the day when the circle will be complete. Then the song of the muse will be heard again the mourning of the trees will stop. This sweet melancholy that is brought by the precious memory The Pale Beauty of the Past lost in the vortex of time.