Fate's Arrow, When Expected, Travels Slow.

The Devil Is Not As Black As He Is Painted.

He Who Know Most Grieves Most For Wasted Time.

O Human Race, Born To Fly Upward, Wherefore At A Little Wind Dost Thou So Fall?

O You Proud Christians, Wretched Souls And Small,/ Who By The Dim Lights Of Your Twisted Minds/ Believe You Prosper Even As You Fall,/ Can You Not See That We Are Worms, Each One/ Born To Become The Angelic Butterfly/ That Flies Defenseless To The Judgement Throne?

Into The Eternal Darkness, Into Fire And Into Ice.