Your burnt offspring's smoke will wind Peacefully towards the skies Only if you bear in mind That when you go to the sun, Your dark shadow is behind.
Silent slave whom the grim lord Summons by a silent gesture, He takes heed, humble and awed, Of the slightest beckoning, And keeps everything well scored.
He's your bondman when your flight Is directed to the sun; He hurts not, he's out of sight; Holy rays surround your forehead, And you do advance in light.
But your shadow councils ill When you leave the sun behind; He will cloud your face until Your keen eyes become purblind -- He is nothing but ill-will!
Shadow, sun, shrine, smoke, and glow! Useless is my tale, unless You have understood it. So -- You may choose! You are just starting; I have long been on the go.