I trace the veins of Monstruosa.
In the damp air of the cellar.
Cold brass reflects a silver glow.
Where the dormant root-systems grow.
This key has no door to find.
A metal ghost left far behind.
Turning circles in the grey.
Waiting for the light of day.
You hold the map of a dead town.
Where the heavy ink is dripping down.
I feel the soil beneath my skin.
Where the hidden stories begin.
Your fingers touch the velvet spine.
A dormant seed, a frozen line.
The Latin names are carved in gold.
A quiet truth that we now hold.
This key has no door to find.
A metal ghost left far behind.
Turning circles in the grey.
Waiting for the light of day.
Deep in the loam the secrets sleep.
A promise that the archives keep.
The lock is gone, the frame is thin.
But this is where the sparks begin.
We plant the key in heavy clay.
To watch the rusted iron decay.
Two strangers meeting in the gloom.
Inside this concrete garden room.
This key has no door to find.
A metal ghost left far behind.
Turning circles in the grey.
Waiting for the light of day.
Unlock the cold steel.
The root is real.
Unlock the cold steel.
