In a dream he cherished illusions,
Gloomy premonitions of a funeral storm,
His hatred sticked without respite,
Filled by
the suffering, the screams and the shocks
Of these lower creatures who sleep without dreaming.
As this far and diaphanous star flood
the landscape with its misty light,
I see the frightened souls wandering through the swamps,
Sports of a funeral lord.
The sharp
flicks of the hoofs blend with the long screams of agony,
With the eternal lamentations of the blind Morpheus,
Captive of an
invisible dungeon from which he was formally the master.
The flutes measure of this grim hunt,
That no blood will soil,
A requiem
of a dreamed dance.
Any salvation will come to clear the profane wound,
And its essence will bear the sign forever,
Invisible but
primordial at the eyes of the Last,
King of the suffering souls,
THE KING, ON THE THRONE OF SORROW