Luyện nghe bài hát A Crater To Cough In

This path that we walk upon is the collection of points that the has drawn.
The rhythm of the storm.
By the moonlight to the of the forest,
in the snow light, we are for the portal of the pines.
Grey as famine, on path against our will by our main sails we're bound to the tempest until the sea is still.
Which compulsion with miniature death tributize?
From the walls of my broken coughing tent, a formal vision,
but I allude to my passion for the obtuse
will this night end?
When the lightening finally tears through the of our sinking ship.
All the of the slaves are betrayed by the grates.
On coffin of a vessel every note's another breaking wave.
Revel in this vision, a visitation, on the night with the light from above.
Famished dogs follow as my own paws drag me to a dock,
to the plank where I struggle to deny myself the path that every Pisces craves,
just the water in the middle of that man-made lake.
On that pier I my eyes from the water like a mirror of myself in the moonlight,
and I cough for crater that I could see,
on the surface of that we've come to call the moon.
Now I wonder if all those judgments that you made true.
And the of the solstice is thrown wide, wide open.
Let all sink, let them all sink through.
The talking, the spinning of a web- its all formal ritual.
The burning.
The burning "what do you deserve?"
The gazing at a candle to find calm, but we all know its at the of the storm.
Oh moon, though pluckest me out, oh
I who have sat by Thebes below the and walked among the lowest of the dead
(to then I came).
Only the most sacred crater suit my burial,
only the most sacred choir performs this dirge.
Perfectly imperfect, a storm.
By our mane dragged and bound to our by our mane,
to the grave dragged and bound to the by the scavenger's tooth.