Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I

O Happy, Happy Each Man Whom Predestined Fate Leads To The Holy Rite Of Hill And Mountain Worship.

The Stallion And His Mare, Unbridled, With Arrow-pattern, Are Worked On. The Blue Cloth Before The Door Of Religion And Inspiration.

I Had Drawn Away Into The Salt, Myself, A Shell Emptied Of Life.

Ah Love Is Bitter And Sweet, But Which Is More Sweet The Bitterness Or The Sweetness, None Has Spoken It.

Luminous, Unfearful; High-priestesses, Our Fervour Shall Banish All Evil.