Where the Sloes Mature

A narrow path full of thorns
Carefully you lift your legs tired
So as not to be wounded
Green sky above your pensive head
It seems that perhaps it will rain
The sun vanished long ago
The end is not yet in sight
And you stray over and over again
Diamond swords in the crowns of trees
Glittering with their magnificent blades
They are falling down to your feet
A path covered with poisoned fruit
They are sour like all your life
This way could be perilous
Where the sloes mature
A sad bequest awaits you
Where the sour sloes mature
Your will is dying in you
Contours of hills in the distance
You are waving to them with a scarf
You have trod on the bad luck
A warm fluid will feed the ground
It will be drinking, so dry and thirsty
A potion that can donate a life
Where the sloes mature
A sad bequest awaits you
Where the sour sloes mature
Your will is dying in you
Just a red stream of your blood
Flows into the deepness of the chasm
Just a red stream of your blood
Feeds the dry and thirsty ground
Where the sloes mature
A sad bequest awaits you
Where the sour sloes mature
Your will is dying in you