Throughout these infinite orbs of singing light,

held bound by rites and prayers

of which this poor world is one

and here lies diffused

a spirit of ungodly dreams,

that knows neither cessation nor decay,

that fades not when the wisp

of midnight lamps are extinguished

in the dampness of a grave.

Here they slumber, unaware,

crude, barbaric creatures, caught in the

fierce whirlwind, the skirling eddies

of time and dreams and lost things,

as we gaze into the eternal universe,

standing upon a deathless battlement

of hope,

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Here they rise, they shout, they flail

and falter, and with all passions

give not a thought to the madness

of their desires.

Bind now the soul of the universe

enchaining its will to illimitable fate,

and draw now the all-influencing virtue

passing unrecognized into the pyre of

the new gods of this

tiny, bloated world.

An eternal spring of life and death,

the endless decay

of transient wishes

and immortal sin,

lies burning and blackening in the fires

of their souls.

Fate requires nothing of us.

They are the despair embodied,

Vanishing like smoke before the tempest,

They shall be cast out to the torrent,

And drown in the dark ocean,

to die lost and alone in the restless depths,

to be torn apart again and again,

shattering endlessly

in the dark.

And here, upon nescient seas,

The breath and blood of distant gods,

gives life to the violent impulses of sublunar beings

and I shall walk in the moonless night

whispering of madness and fate to the circling air.