The day, when the light rot, had come The jewel of the world is he, who is able not to feel his conscience For the world is his completion And serves him The man is the gem of lots of shades and masks, changed again and again According to situation God is unaware of his nature The cross sprinkled by the blood of the brute of other specie than I am... The soul comes at every beck on call, because she is not inside me any more The Death is the true end Panic possessed us, because There is no enemy we could fight We are likely to slaughter each other... There is no power above us, no power of one god His hated flesh under human foot Stoned to death, as an example For dead is he who died
completion, brute, sprinkled, power, beck