Celtic Frost
Into the Pandemonium
Sorrows of the Moon / Tristesses De La Lune
Night, the Moon dreams and with more indolence;
Just like a beauty and that, on the dive,
Animates with his hand, with lightness and unconsciousness,
Before falling asleep, the apple breasts.
On the satin back of soft avalanches
Dying , she indulges in long lassitudes,
And her gaze wanders over visionary spots
Which rise through the blue like flowers.
If sometimes over the globe, between idle and lascivious,
She lets the furtive tear fall,
Enemy of sleep, a poet finally with traces.
In the hollow of his hand he seeks to imprison her,
And seeing -shining like a little opal
Place it in the heart, far from the gaze of the stars.

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