Throughout these infinite orbs of singing light,

  held bound by rites and prayers

  of which this poor world is one

  and here lies diffused

  a spirit of ungodly dreams,

  that knows neither cessation nor decay,

  that fades not when the wisp

  of midnight lamps are extinguished

  in the dampness of a grave.

  Here they slumber, unaware,

  crude, barbaric creatures, caught in the

  fierce whirlwind, the skirling eddies

  of time and dreams and lost things,

  as we gaze into the eternal universe,

  standing upon a deathless battlement

  of hope,

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  Here they rise, they shout, they flail

  and falter, and with all passions

  give not a thought to the madness

  of their desires.

  Bind now the soul of the universe

  enchaining its will to illimitable fate,

  and draw now the all-influencing virtue

  passing unrecognized into the pyre of

  the new gods of this

  tiny, bloated world.

  An eternal spring of life and death,

  the endless decay

  of transient wishes

  and immortal sin,

  lies burning and blackening in the fires

  of their souls.

  Fate requires nothing of us.

  They are the despair embodied,

  Vanishing like smoke before the tempest,

  They shall be cast out to the torrent,

  And drown in the dark ocean,

  to die lost and alone in the restless depths,

  to be torn apart again and again,

  shattering endlessly

  in the dark.

  And here, upon nescient seas,

  The breath and blood of distant gods,

  gives life to the violent impulses of sublunar beings

  and I shall walk in the moonless night

  whispering of madness and fate to the circling air.