A Chore for the Lost - Deathspell Omega

An exhausted fall into disgrace, famished for peace, for a mere moment

Of respite in dying eternities, on the verge of being deprived of all

Humanity: non-sense is the outcome of every possible sens, it is the start of

Transcendence, the dissolution that spreads without limits and the critical

Violation;

what pleasure of inconceivable purity there is in being an object

Of abhorrence for the sole being to whom destiny links my life!

The rupture

Is too profound to stand up, nothing remains but a terrified consolation in

A laughable renunciation that is not the one of a single man, thou art not

Dead to the devoration of sin!

Every human being not going to the extreme limit is the servant or the

Enemy of man and the accomplice of a nameless obscenity

Let us be a blight on the orchard, on all orchards of this world, even the

Least of these words will be judged during the times of reckoning, bearing

A latent damnation a feverish seduction exasperated in death, every letter

Is a code to extreme horror, utter contempt and divine conflict;

it is lethal

To speak the language of resistance, every gasp exhales a particle of the

Remission of Golgotha, as if the blazing Logos demanded the exercise of a

fragile power just above annihilation, the one of a harmony in ruins;

it is a

Task for a man who cannot bear any longer to be, a chore for the lost in the

Denial of free will: perinde ac cadaver!

Le vent de la vérité a répondu comme une gifle à la joue tendue de la piété

God of terror, very low dost thou bring us, very low hast thou brought us…