God of terror, very low dost thou bring us,
Very low hast thou brought us...
A sensation of everlasting rot and those frantic wails,
No, it is not a fall into
The abyss, the defiance of descent,
A coronation beyond liberty and slavery;
The cry of woe and deliverance exudes a flame,
Evasive as sound and ether:
An instant of collusion with death,
Without hope nor prospect, yet it is a
World below and above and in all eternity,
A gift of fever, the wind of death
That sustains the life in me,
Yes, the lightness of hovering in permanent
Anguish; I dared to borrow those words,
To articulate them and to savour
Their turpitude, as I beheld the shrine of mad laughter.
The limit is crossed with a weary horror:
Hope seemed a respect which fatigue grants
To the necessity of the world.
As if Death was dashed onto the death within,
A violent thrust stealing the light of the eyes,
A ray of darkness, a negation,
The bread of bitterness that ignites neither devotion nor fervour;
Resplendent nothingness!
Make all things appear with clarity,
Ruined in the flame of repudiation, in the flame of God!
Interwoven joy and confusion, a stabbing confusion,
Asphyxiation from within, yet I gained this certitude:
Malediction, degradation, sown in me like seeds,
Now belonged to death, in harbouring a desire for the hideous,
I was beckoning to death.
Insatiable combustion, expand, this body is the vessel of grace!
The idea of God is pale next to that of perdition,
But of this I could have no inkling in advance.