Cry craven, you unfortunate sot of ghost semblance!
Give yourself to me in my melodic lunacy;
for I am Darkness of Origin,
and all the shadows in between.
Cry craven, you lily-livered caitiff!
Scald yourself for all your aeons at my feet;
for I am Spearing Light of Genesis,
and all the dawnings in between.
In clear skies and dry seasons,
mine ears be blest still
with Cyclopean weeping beads
where breath is tenuous,
and mind be indulged with dreams.
One eyed trickling in the wind of late silence
to the awakening film:
an echoing whisper and restless memory
of Furor Divinus calling beasts
to feats and banquets of love and evol.
Furor Divinus, the forest dance of atavism.
Furor Divinus, the disavowal of masks
held by public favouritism.
Furor Divinus, the thrusting horses of Abyss.
Furor Divinus, exalted bile screams of Dame Melancholy.