From This Bizarre And Livid Sky Tormented By Your Destiny, Into Your Vacant Spirit Fly What Tho~Ghts? Respond, You Libertine. Voracious In My Appetite For The Uncertain And Unknown, I Do Not Whine For Paradise As Ovid Did, Expelled From Rome. Skies Tom Apart Like Wind-Swept Sands, You Are The Mirrors Of My Pride; Your Mourning Clouds, So Black And Wide, Are Hearses That My Dreams Command, And You Reflect In Flashing Light The Hell In Which My Heart Delights.