Bitter as Wormwood

Follow me friend, The night is cold and our hearts As full and twisted as our screwed eyes. Follow me friend to the nearest graveyard We needs pick roses from the neibouring houses Yea,those that stand crew-haunted in the dark. Follow me friend! We'll invite all the Shadows and Mysteries And all demons who in dark dwellings breathe. We'll strew roses on all stones Then trample all without exemption Till they mirror the image of our cracked hearts. Follow me friend,then to the nearest crag, We are overtired by night We must needs cry after all Tramplings Needs sleep somewhere out of sight. -The title is borrowed from the last stanza of a poem by Alexander Blok,'To the Muse'. "And there was a fatal pleasure In trampling on cherished and holy things; and this passion,bitter as wormwood, Was a frenzied delight for the heart!"