Call Of The Zombie

And out of the darkness, the Zombie did call
True pain and suffering he brought to them all
Away ran the children to hide in their beds,
for fear that the devil would chop off their heads


Call Of The Zombie - Rob Zombie

I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls...

''Cessam os arautos de correr a liça
e já se ouve o som vibrante do clarim.
...Depois, vagarosamente, vem o silêncio por fim
e todos se aprestam para o combate.
Daí a pouco brilham as espadas combatendo
e na arena o sangue vai caindo, correndo...''


Chaucer

Porque toda a Morte é indestrutível

The Conqueror Worm

Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama–oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!–it writhes!–with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out–out are the lights–out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.



Edgar Allan Poe

The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

''If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is: infinite.''





''The sow came in with the saddle,
The little pig rocked the cradle,
The dish jumped o' top of the table
To see the brass pot swallow the ladle.
The old pot behind the door 5
Called the kettle a blackamoor.
'Odd bobbs' said the gridiron, 'can't you agree?
I'm the head constable, bring them to me.''



William Blake