I, your bard, Matoriles
mer Talisien does sing.
And below me, darkness does wring.
But you, oh Muse, do make me fly.
I sing the heavens and burn the sun.
I am the word and melody too.
Your wings have carried me through and through.
From this window do I write
of my last plight to save from vice.
Weary, old, frail am I
but I sing life within your cry.
You are my sparkling gem, my sight.
Even when I am so blind
as I cannot see the morning light
nor touch the flaming candle in the sky.
I can still hear! Thank heavens for that.
But when I die, my soul shall rest
between the pillars of sweet digress,
a mountain shall meet me, this I sing,
the serpent who conquered Times own spring.
And you, sweet mistress of the night,
I shall find you if my last breath is nigh.
Never fear, dear Elengrin,
your vision has made me pure.