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