Poor is he who does not believe in magic
And Thy existence in the dark of fenland,
Maiden, who dwellest in the deepest forest,
Drinking the moonlight with its cold illusions
As if they were the finest of all pleasures
As well in heavens as on earthly bossom...

Let me dive into spheres of heathen madness,
Show me thy favour, lighten my ignorance,
Sing for me, Beauty, sing for me, my Goddess!

Let thy sonatas of abysmal sorrow
Flow through the landscapes of nocturnal silence
'chanting my senses with Thy vain temptation,
Shining as bright as moon over Silesia,
Pushing me to the gates of deadly slumber
So I can adore in great admiration
Thy lovely figure in the streams of silver...

Following the call of internal voices
I walk towards the source of my deep yearning
To search for splendour of the ancient ages,
Hidden before me in an ancient temple,
Among the ruins of forgotten culture...

I see Thee standing like a sacred statue,
Singing for me the song of dark oblivion.
I close my eyes and flow to new dimensions...

27th of January 2001