Who would want troubles of white demons, and of the nightmare of their ardent material desire? Who would like their Druidism that bewitched? Then hit you with his thrust on the flanks?
Who would like organs of their dirty song, and of the system which horrifies the human condition, who injects you the dark venom of the Tarantula, to nourish the crowd of damned who adulate?
All who are unaware of the ways of the ether, and those who once denied their humanity, so long have they never sounded their solitary soul, and act like gregarious animals.
Which are based on materialistic ideals, too enamoured of their consumer perversion, then girded by the hitching of their spinal tree, impudently propose their venal love.
It is necessary that in horror there be a face, the hideous mask of the fatal omens, but let us never curse with fervour, for monsters sometimes make saviours.
I aspire to be a wolf, terror of the lambs, on whom they will let go their ferocious dogs, and who will extirpate the sheep from their flock, to put an end to their dirty trade.
I am the shadow that aspires to the light, sweet nectar in the bosom of the mother earth, a shadow that darkens the dark suns, to open to the divine enlightenment that awakens.
The tributary of evils and silences, should we fear everything that kills us? A shadow prey to its pious virtues, the pungent must of the fruits of harsh penance.
And to satisfy our desires for vengeance, that we drown in our thirst for justice, the dogs of war in the fierce petulance, Echoes our horrible tortures.
The free spirit is like an eagle in the peaks, and piercing with piercing eyes the abyss, he submits the proud wind with his humble integrity, and dominates the valleys and the plains of eternity.
Divine light shines from its redeeming fires and consumes heresies in its saving hearth. Black suns fade into darkness, brown dwarfs sounding funeral orations.
In the circle of all the Pharisaic sects, which stand as a barrier of the true spirit, ostentatives of their piety and apparent virtues and swooned by the drink of their indolent faith.
The flight of the spirit is the misfortune of the senses, out of the pleasures of the islands of decay.
In the heart of men reside two emulators, the first is an eagle and the last, tarantula.