Golden Scapegoat's Mutterings

5 The dead live on, his bones burning. The black tide, declaring war on the white rooftop. His home is like a decaying fig, its intact skin hiding festering pustules beneath. The visage lost, the blood lost, the soul lost... All becomes a haze of chaos because of the regression of light. What is finally lost is the name. All has ground to a halt, and all has to stop. The culprit must die, even if the sin was yet to be committed. 6 The hometown's boat drifts on the water surface — this wailing wood is blistering with green foam. One who has never ventured far, leaving a place marked as his grave from birth, wandering across the sickly world. His words verge on madness, his howls like a wind-weathered statue — mute and unspoken. People are the foam of the land. 7 The ebony tide, leaving nameless water on the rocks. Absolute water of reality, the water of death — thus, bearing no name. Those who don't drink this water will die of thirst in it. Those who do will lose their own names. In this water that does not reflect one's face, all the world's faces are contained within. That face says, humans will re-discover their truer names.