In an arcade of woods in a sombre forest   I rise my hand in a devoted hail   To the obscure Horns that lead me   To my black desting to grow humble      As the funeral breeze blows in my face   and runs through my blonde hair   I know who I am: A dweller of a palace encircled in the mist      I see the fullmoon behind the grim branches   Like the unspeakable truth in this soil   They both give a vision of a purified mind   A black heart has knowingly burned   all that is impure from this forest of sorrow   and everything that is not of Satan      To each man his own, and to me this silence   The serenity that awaits for the beastly roar   To awaken the somber kingdom given to me   In the darkness, still so far far away   A gate waits for me to enter the circle   The eternal cycle of death and of the night.