Imhotep

...Poor, dark cloud child,
You have once again wrapped yourself in a storm,
In a flimsy cloak of bad luck
Banishing yourself in eternal night.
The impenetrable second skin,
Has built the boundary to the world...-
Like an eggshell, hard as stone,
It lets in no light or warmth.

Ice-cold walls, false house,
No life slips out of you,
No unborn matures within,
Only an angry, old man
Laments eternally within...-
Even before death, he fears.

Poor, dark cloud child,
Your mind always takes the worst course.
Your path of horror is deceitful,
Holds nothing but pain and suffering for you;
Scenarios your fear conjures,
That never were, not truly.
So terribly rages the storm within you,
This evil, old monster
Lures forth from the darkness
The vile, hissing shadow choir,
Which, like a cold, sickly breath,
Rots festeringly in your belly,
And then as a disgusting corpse wind
Takes away goodness and beauty from you...

Oh, poor, dark cloud child