The mirrors stand once again on the hills The boards of clay still hide in the sand Summed up in what is now a mental desert The cradle of human creation Now burned, now buried
The source spits you out on the floor Cold, Sterile, Mournful Impenetrable, weak and weary Where there is no pleasure, nor joy
Whatever you ask shalt be true But who dictates what you ask here? Microcosmic links to all Where bloodline is only illusion
The aim of the Sage Is telling you that nothing ever was true
Picatrix - Picatrix
Liberties of the flesh are the only channel For they mark the connection To the minds, who cares to rotate Sinister strikes with your dagger of glass Cuts through the throats of the mute
