Weakness of the past Like vapor in the trenches These lowlands haunted By a man clad in frost All evil deeds done Are piled up into hills And visible on the left side Fields of bad omens Behind the skyline The worst noise of the world Violent crows of this dream Flying backwards Open below us Another swarm grows Feel like tumors Which shall return And every night someone Moves all the clocks forward And the sun seems to Set always at the sunrise No one leaves this place No roads out from here No passing birds ever Really do pass by No one entering here Walks without trembling No one ever dreams of The hands of tender fathers
https://primoaccordo.net/swallow-the-sun/these-low-lands.htm