Wine and joy are completely forgotten, As well as his armor and sword. Alone he descends in the rotten Mysterious dungeon. The door Is squeaking with long drawn sound For no one has entered inside. The dark and the damp reign around. The window is narrow and high. His eyes grow accustomed to the gloom and Through the dust and the web he explores Some strange marks, emerging and looming On the floor, on the vaults, on the walls. He gazes at the marks? interlacement At those incomprehensible signs And tarries for Death to embrace him To enlighten his soul and eyes.