My attempt to honor Pelle with words.
To Pelle Ohlin
Born from Transylvanian fog,
embraced by Death himself.
A human, yet not fully human, walked this earth
a frame like winter’s last branch, brittle and bare.
Destined for life, but hollow inside.
Eyes that seemed to witness the end of all things.
A voice that reminded mortals of rot in its grave,
melodies that carried you to forgotten cemeteries,
dead forests where the cold wind cut your skin.
He was Dead, not a name, but a being.
To Death, he gave himself.
From trauma he had died once,
and longed to die again, to find peace.
Pale skin etched with agony.
Hands reached out, but all in vain,
as if his fate was already written.
In his own world, loneliness devoured him.
At twenty-two full moons, he chose Transylvania.
where the fog could cradle his dead soul,
where peace finally found him.
“What you found was eternal death.
No one will ever miss you.” – Pelle
beautifully done
