In the chambers of dreaming, where the night drapes itself with crow feathers,
A harbinger of the end weeps silently over the meadow towards eternal rest;
Waltz, waltz in the canvas of darkness that seeks its nest.
Though the philosophers of the golden age embrace the darkened knowledge,
Because their echoes have not pierced the abyss with azure lightnings, they
Do not lie quietly upon the pallet of stars that are fading.
Brave souls of the dwindling day, at the last moment, sighing for their transient glow,
Faltering...