Watery rubber boots
On the field of moss
Inside the boots weary legs
Of the man I always meet
Swamp full of mist
Icy embrace
Nothing left of
Sense of direction
Swamphell
Kill me, let me sink in your lap
Once was the air crystal clear
Secular joys were so near
Glory days have left behind
Swamplord calls now misty mind
Swamp full of mist
Icy embrace
Nothing left of
Sense of direction
When there is nothing left on the surface
And the wind is blowing slow
Under the carpet of moss
Finally I meet my Swamplord |
