Idioma Origen:
At the seething and fiery center
He sits upon his ebon throne
Within his halls of darkness
Which no man has seen and survived the vision
Both blind and bereft of mind
He pipes unceasingly
And the notes that rise and fall in measured patterns are the foundations of all the worlds
Ever calculating in sound the structure of space and time
Were his flute ever to suddenly fall silent
All the spheres would shatter into one another
And the myraids of worlds
Would be unmade
As they were before creation
The flute of the blind idiot
Both makes and unmakes the worlds in ceaseless combinations
Spinning on the woven carpet of time
No creation without destruction
No destruction without creation
To unmake a thing is to make another
Each time a thing is made
Another is destroyed
The idiot god on his black throne
Does not choose
What shall rise into being
And what should pass away
He cares only to maintain
his mindless unholy music of random creation and destruction
No living creature can look upon his face
And endure its terrible heat
And black radiance
That is like the reverberating unseen rays of molten iron
Which strik and burn the skin of those who would dare
Gaze into the countenance of the idiot god
Never does he recieve supplicants
In his black halls of uncouth angles and stranges doors
Nor does he ever hear prayers or answer them
Endlessly he pipes
And endlessly he devours his own substance
For his hunger is insatiable
As he consumes his own wastes after the customm of idiots
As he creates
So he destroys
Idioma Destino:
At the seething and fiery center
He sits upon his ebon throne
Within his halls of darkness
Which no man has seen and survived the vision
Both blind and bereft of mind
He pipes unceasingly
And the notes that rise and fall in measured patterns are the foundations of all the worlds
Ever calculating in sound the structure of space and time
Were his flute ever to suddenly fall silent
All the spheres would shatter into one another
And the myraids of worlds
Would be unmade
As they were before creation
The flute of the blind idiot
Both makes and unmakes the worlds in ceaseless combinations
Spinning on the woven carpet of time
No creation without destruction
No destruction without creation
To unmake a thing is to make another
Each time a thing is made
Another is destroyed
The idiot god on his black throne
Does not choose
What shall rise into being
And what should pass away
He cares only to maintain
his mindless unholy music of random creation and destruction
No living creature can look upon his face
And endure its terrible heat
And black radiance
That is like the reverberating unseen rays of molten iron
Which strik and burn the skin of those who would dare
Gaze into the countenance of the idiot god
Never does he recieve supplicants
In his black halls of uncouth angles and stranges doors
Nor does he ever hear prayers or answer them
Endlessly he pipes
And endlessly he devours his own substance
For his hunger is insatiable
As he consumes his own wastes after the customm of idiots
As he creates
So he destroys