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.