what passion do i have,
what hatred do i keep,
what love do i treasure,
the recipient of all, i know not--
let it be who, let it be what,
let it be for none, i care not;
for they rage inside me,
they lash and scream,
they grow flowers in my trail,
they let burn all i touch,
and it is beautiful.

of gods and monsters we were made;
by summer and tempest we were risen;
of green grass and black mountains we were moulded--
such two-souled beasts men are!

I nurtured an old tree
On an obsidian hill,
Where the moon is in chains
And the leaves in chase of wind.

I killed to soar,
I sinned seeking life,
I grew moth wings for
Whatever death may find
In me that is more
Than what is right.

Oh, the fickleness of truth!
Only does it serve us that we serve it.
Oh, the fickleness of truth!
Only does it maim us that we maim it.

There was once a fly
That flew about.
Fly was all it knew,
And so only fly it did.

There was blood on my hands,
And I saw dancing figures on my ceiling.
They then whisper for neatness
But a sad smile was all I could offer.