The tendrils of foreign powers mask my ears and eyes. 

I cannot move; I am as one hypnotized, 

Blinded by the luxurious allurement of greater ascedencies.

 A beckoning force (almost too strong to be born) breathes, whispers, 

Shouts promises, commands, and paragons, known and unknown. 

 The fragrance of these mysteries leaves me drenched. 

I can see immortality clearly. 

 Born upon the wings of intercession, 

 I savor this encounter and adore.