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