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ㅤㅤ                    My, oh, dried bloody crushed fig
                has finally stained our last trace.

My, oh, our faithful candelabra
        has now consumed by the last sip of time.

The shrine is whispering, and so our gate must bestow to its end. Praise our filthy pure soul! Must we bid our wings to crouch, full of deepest gratitude to those who tried to come and claim their throne. We gulped your devotions like water for their own believer, we believe every calling, but few shall be chosen to end the drought. ㅤ

The calling for our own has been settled— yet, must we plea for your wings to not fall in despair. Our feathers shall be spread around you, as a message to guide you home. We believe this path is leading our way for the greater.

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The adoration for all of you shall never banish as though we may not be seated shoulder to shoulder. To everyone around us, may we bid you much of our gratitude and love. The joy to have you around shall be ours and may Hjërt always lay close in your heart.


                                         Hjërt.

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