I swarm deserted away, like glass... Warm, and as fevers, I am as flame. I am death... For I, I weave our blasphemies... Wicthes painted me, Like the mysteries created me... Like where the poets breathe, I were woven into blasphemies.
I swarm deserted away, like glass... Warm, and as fevers, I am as flame. I am death... For I, I weave our blasphemies... Wicthes painted me, Like the mysteries created me... Like where the poets breathe, I were woven into blasphemies.