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His numb fingers clenched around infamy

The blurry transparencies of misty dreams

Washed his atrocious soul

Praised for his vaulting pride and sinister hubris



Betrothed to a doomed song of darkness stronger than god himself

He disavowed his soul for ages

hoisted the sails when the storm started its mournful lament

He stepped forward, silent, lightnings in his eyes



The sons of men on the brink of death

How much they suffered looking at his mysterious glare

And the heavens in their eyes faded, the day darkened

The shadow swelling casting its black wing



Like the flame fluttering in the wind

Panting with bitterness

Entombed in a smoking urn

He descended into the dark abyss of spectres



Dimmed are the sepulchral candles

With a cunning gesture of his crooked hands

Immune to the stare of those piercing eyes

The king of chaos merges into gloom





He was awakened by howling. Could it be night already? He must have fallen asleep at his desk studying one the volumes recommended by Friedrich. That one focused mainly on some unknown biblical criticism.

Suddenly he heard music coming from the other room. He opened the door. Could it be the Countess’s bed chamber? It was empty. Only a candle on the table was burning. There were hundreds of vessels and dishes in the room: on the table, on the floor, on the window sills; jugs, bowls and carafes; all filled with water. Dark dirty water. Then he saw the Countess in front of him. She was standing there with her raven-black hair loose, wearing a lace négligé. She looked at him and smiled defiantly. Without saying a word she gestured him to come in…