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