In an arcade of woods in a sombre forest I rise my hand in a devoted hail To the obscure Horns that lead me To my black desting to grow humble As the funeral breeze blows in my face and runs through my blonde hair I know who I am: A dweller of a palace encircled in the mist I see the fullmoon behind the grim branches Like the unspeakable truth in this soil They both give a vision of a purified mind A black heart has knowingly burned all that is impure from this forest of sorrow and everything that is not of Satan To each man his own, and to me this silence The serenity that awaits for the beastly roar To awaken the somber kingdom given to me In the darkness, still so far far away A gate waits for me to enter the circle The eternal cycle of death and of the night.