I do profound the death,
Inside which it weakens me.
Not mine acting does it cause
…it is in fear.
But blindness thou see in every mortal —
dreamlike thought,
including in me.
Beheaded I am,
greedly waiting besides thine grotesque being.
For a saviour of this soul
had it even ever been?
Thou all art but blind fruits,
in mine created bowl ;
Only feeling my hunger to thine flesh,
as stars have come old.
It Is a desolate night in me again,
so I was told.
Carried I did the shadow alone,
to these crystalmoors.
With a bare arm and drop of blood
…as I do recall.
My reasons for vast profoundness,
are deepen far away.
By the shimmering light of the «ill-face»
I do stand pale and tall…
Wandering about in darkness questioning myself
Was there ever a day at all?