The Song of the Mad

The wild winds weep
And the night is cold;
I yearn for the sleep
Where stories are told!
Just one of many trips
Over the eastern steeps,
Until the arrival of dawn
When ideas are born

Oh, it's my own fault
If I don't reach heaven
If I possess naught;
Those things are given
They come to you at Night
And haunt you all the Day
Like hellish roaring fiends
With which you try to play

Like gold in a cloud
Like an invisible foe
I hear the angels, loud!
And with night will go;
I shall join the feast
My soul shall be released
For I shall get rid of pain
Under the cleansing rain

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