... of the night

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.