nnIn a dream he cherished illusions, nGloomy premonitions of a funeral storm, nHis hatred sticked without respite, nFilled by the suffering, the screams and the shocks nOf these lower creatures who sleep without dreaming. nAs this far and diaphanous star flood the landscape with its misty light, nI see the frightened souls wandering through the swamps, nSports of a funeral lord. nThe sharp flicks of the hoofs blend with the long screams of agony, nWith the eternal lamentations of the blind Morpheus, nCaptive of an invisible dungeon from which he was formally the master. nThe flutes measure of this grim hunt, nThat no blood will soil, nA requiem of a dreamed dance. nAny salvation will come to clear the profane wound, nAnd its essence will bear the sign forever, nInvisible but primordial at the eyes of the Last, nKing of the suffering souls, nTHE KING, ON THE THRONE OF SORROW.nn