It’s not really gone,
These are just seeds for
the future, waiting
It’s not really gone,
These are just seeds for
the future, waiting
I sense that I will
Break through or break down
Perhaps both will be
I would not be a mage of
Any worth had I not burnt
Every tome before you came.
You may torture and kill me
But you will never learn the
Secrets of my mystic arts.
If you should spurn the gifts of
Your fathers, you will swim in
Open sea without tether
Hesitating to open
The ancient reliquary,
I finally cracked the seal.
A mist of dust clouded my
Sight, and I gazed at a small
Mirror. My face contorted
Until, as my consciousness
Died, I recognized the smile
Of that blessed Saint Amun.
Raze the temple to the ground
Let there be no refuge in
This trackless desert, so that
The truth may be discovered
I will paint you from
The palette of my love, wash
You with the red of
My mouth, prime with the
Pink of my caress, fill you
With the purple of
My passion, fix you with the
Warmth of my embrace.
After he first was
Spoken to by Barbelith,
He began to see
Her glyph everywhere;
In graffiti, reflected
In rainwater, and
Tattooed on the chest
Of the beautiful woman
He had just now met
For those who can hear
My music, a single chord
Arouses the most
Powerful feelings.
Fear, hate, love, depravity,
Your sympathies are
My symphony. You are puppets
To my every whim.