A melancholy air permeates every crevice of this lair
This place filled to the brim with gloom, dread, and despair
No escape can be found from the hate of generations

Humanity means nothing to the creatures living here
Wicked monsters, filled with loathing, only for themselves, they care
No escape can be found from this drawn out degradation

Selfishness abounds, humans are treated as possessions
Attachment leads to loathing on the moors, so incanescent
While the suffering proceeds there's no attempt at reparations

The lover's love remains, with no chance to be requited
Happiness forgone, he doles out punishment in its stead
Love is the lover's folly, there can be no satisfaction