In ancient Greek mythology, Mormo (Greek: Μορμώ, Μορμών, Mormō) was a spirit who ate bad children, said to have been a companion of the goddess Hecate. Used to signify a vampire-like creature in stories told to Greek children by their nurses to keep them from misbehaving.
All is cold and frozen. Frozen the sea, frozen the sky. Frozen is death, but I cannot die. Cannot die. As the falls. To cover this all. And all is cold. And cold is all. All is cold and cold is all. Cold. Frozen. Frozen is heaven and frozen is hell. And I am dying in this living human shell. I am a dying God, coming into human flesh. I am a dying God. Frozen my heart. Frozen my soul. Frozen my love. I am a dying God, coming into human flesh.
Up from the evil day Of wattle and of woad, Along man's weary way Dark Pain has been the goad. Back from the age of stone, Within his brutish brain, What pleasure he has known Is ease from Pain.
Behold in Pain the force That haled Man from the Pit, And set him such a course No mind can measure it. To angel from the ape No human pang was vain In that divine escape To joy through Pain.
See Pain with stoic eyes And patient fortitude, A blessing in disguise, An instrument of good. Aye, though with hearts forlorn We to despair be fain, Believe that Joy is born From Womb of Pain.
Sorrow ever awaits on joy And has rendered me to pieces You who must stoop to view the skies Stoop amongst the dying Libera eos Domine I silently wait, and claw my eyes Libera eos Domine Stoop to slake this thirst My sorrow can no more lament There is no arm to cling to Stoop to slake this thirst I silently wait, and claw my eyes Libera eos Domine Silently, silently Waiting, to gorge in solitude When will my sorrow begin to pale? And to my head I raise these flowers Yellowed, withered Silent, silently Waiting, to gorge on solitude When will my sorrow begin to pale?
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I have experienc'd The worst, the World can wreak on me--the worst That can make Life indifferent, yet disturb With whisper'd Discontents the dying prayer-- I have beheld the whole of all, wherein My Heart had any interest in this Life, To be disrent and torn from off my Hopes That nothing now is left. Why then live on ? That Hostage, which the world had in it's keeping Given by me as a Pledge that I would live-- That Hope of Her, say rather, that pure Faith In her fix'd Love, which held me to keep truce With the Tyranny of Life--is gone ah ! whither ? What boots it to reply ? 'tis gone ! and now Well may I break this Pact, this League of Blood That ties me to myself--and break I shall !
Here is a wound that never will heal, I know, Being wrought not of a dearness and a death, But of a love turned ashes and the breath Gone out of beauty; never again will grow The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath Its friendly weathers down, far Underneath Shall be such bitterness of an old woe. That April should be shattered by a gust, That August should be levelled by a rain, I can endure, and that the lifted dust Of man should settle to the earth again; But that a dream can die, will be a thrust Between my ribs forever of hot pain.
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