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A baksa in sacred trance,

With a burning fuse in his mouth,

Offers his tears and maddening pain,

In exchange for the soul that was taken away.

He wanders eastwards to the shining empires,

Where millions bow to the will of the one.

He wanders westwards to the kingdoms of steel,

Where words are holy and life is cheap.

He is brought south, to the scorching deserts

Where price of gold is blood and price of water is gold.

And then to the north, where trunks blast of frost

And polaris shines numbly from it's iron pole.

And then ever downwards, to the halls of dread,

To the black den of ghosts beyond the Great Veil,

Where the First of the Dead holds his terrible court,

Where adders coil and his axe is the law.

When he comes to his senses he was left for dead

And the birds have pecked out his eyes.

The gods remained silent, his powers have failed

He wanders the waking world ever blind.