The wilding winds of woven dreams,

Torment the seas of time,

And in the air that no man sees,

There is the scent of crime,

Of sorrow, truths and hidden lies,

The face we all disguise,

The ready masks and old clichés,

That hide among the wise,

Of passions chained and sleeping rage,

They cannot exist,

But watch them burn and brightly flame

Among the freedom kissed,

The night is long, and rarely lit,

By reason or its kin,

And in the cavern dark and dim,

Madness makes its din.