A God Implants In Mortal Guilt Whenever

Words Are The Parents Of A Causeless Wrath.

On Me The Tempest Falls. It Does Not Make Me Tremble. O Holy Mother Earth, O Air And Sun, Behold Me. I Am Wronged.

The Cure Is In The House, Not Brought By Other Hands From Distant Places, But By Its Own, In Agony And Blood.

And Now It Goes As It Goes And Where It Ends Is Fate. And Neither By Singeing Flesh Nor Tipping Cups Of Wine Nor Shedding Burning Tears Can You Enchant Away The Rigid Fury.

Fear Is Stronger Than Arms.