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The Winterlong

from The Fruit of Barren Fields by Dreichmere

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about

See the crows descend, conjure a cold that has no end.

The Winterlong:

lyrics

Is mine the hand
that blights the orchard?
Or mine breath born
of nighted December;
the death that blooms
in starless aether?

Shorn from the sublime,
Beyond the thrall of hope;
Am I bound to infinite solitude
and suffering- not of the body,
But of the spirit?

A breeze fraught with tainted omen
rouses me from the depths of woe.
A mutter of marbled limbs
Bestirs the Wurm within my breast.

The Eastern eye peers with sickly fire
Revealing wretched faces four,
Bent and bearing through the grey
Another corpse, this cairn to join.

My visage twisting theirs in fright
They turn in vain towards morning light

My hand I cannot, will not, stay
The crows shall feast this sordid day.

...

Musing on these silent streams
In patterns pouring from the deed
As if they would for me portend,
Though cowled in forgotten tongue.

Black wings fold o'er tattered throats;
I see the answer in their descent,
In their rustling, their rending of flesh
To bring this revenance to an end.

Ten thousand deaths on me bestowed
Shall be repaid in likened fold,
A chalice filled for thee and thine-
This world to drown in draught of white.

credits

from The Fruit of Barren Fields, released May 31, 2020

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about

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Dreichmere Grand Rapids, Michigan

Dreichmere melds textures of dissonance and melody to craft long-form melancholic tracks that are both atmospheric and progressive. Hailing from Grand Rapids, MI, Dreichmere was originally formed under the name Dräugr in 2012.

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