a poem by Lukas Bartsch
I
Deep in the mid of darkest night
appeared to me a spectre bright.
Floating there suspended up high
mouth ajar in lone mournful cry:
Ah! Be damned you, too cold – too cold
is thy plane for us Spirits old.
II
Then rightly frightened did I deem,
this vision can’t be naught but dream.
Merely a nightly delusion
could explain this strange intrusion.
Steady, steady! I told my heart,
ere thundering you rip apart!
III
Yet the apparition remained.
Thus, my fear returned and chained
me anew to my wooden bed
draped now in icecold creeping dread.
And through the shutter coldly shone
moonlight on floating rags and bone.
IV
As suddenly the shutters shut
a cackling laughter froze my blood.
Emanating from rotten head,
its bluish hue now crimson red.
Summoning then from whence it dwells –
the lapping flames of fiery hells.
V
Mortal! I have risen to claim
the embers of thy lonely flame
which you had promised in return
for thy love avoiding her urn.
Ah! So now down – down we shall go.
Come freely or I make it so!
VI
Unholy demon, ghastly son of hell,
hear me now! Never did I tell
the devil he may claim my soul!
Never shall I offer this toll!
For I prayed to the angels above.
That they may in their mercy save my love.
VII
Pray – pray you did but not to God.
Did you, fool, never deem it odd
that the answer came from below?
For the angel that heard thy woe
was my father, fair King of Fire,
The Lord of Flies, Archangel, Sire!
