Текст: Ved Buens Ende. Written In Waters. To Swarm Deserted Away.

I swarm deserted away, like glass...
Warm, and as fevers,
I am as flame.
I am death...
For I, I weave our blasphemies...

Wicthes painted me,
Like the mysteries created me...
Like where the poets breathe,
I were woven into blasphemies