Almost condescending it looks on from inside;   I feel strong, this day will never wither!   In sorcery is my most ancient thought,   And I thought the sorcerer was right      It creeps behind a dusty mirror   They, in an attic I dreamt of once      Flow through me again,   Wrathful one   I feel strong!   Throw the tapestry o'er the oracles!   Belong to me in innocence...      The shears cut cleaner than a child's first sin;   I chose the grave in blasphemous      It fell away a hundred times before   But orisons scratched veiled glass   "Thou art I" says cast away:   And I am in an attic.      I feel weak.   This night will never bloom!   I am I   Now you're mine, my cunting child.