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.