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,    greedily 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?