Sun Of The Sleepless

I bleed - the blade's been sharpened,
The wounds have been cut deep,
Whilst thou weavest thy carpet
And lests the heavens weep.

Discouraged hearts thou makest,
Bringest the wretches woe,
And those that thou forsakest
In thee have found a foe.

Tristesse consumes the lands - grey!
Thou paintest life on earth,
And those thou hast consumed, pray:
O give to winter birth!

Discouraged hearts thou makest,
Bringest the wretches woe,
And those that thou forsakest
In thee have found a foe.