and tears the skein through, that wondrous light.
By hands of God, and all it abates,
does it work by his demands; thus it creates.
Deep from the dwelling,
The ground! She is swelling!
Impregnated by the force of nature itself abound,
doth the belly of the Mother grow ever round.
Round and round, grow and grew,
the belly of the Mother ever to brew,
That which comes next in the cycle of life;
The Release of the slippery strife.
Expelled, it is, from the Mother's womb.
Unfortunate for it, the juices serve as a tomb.
Damned for the treachery, betraying its part:
the size, shall it shrink, to the size of its heart.
Escape, from the womb, does a gaseous form cry;
clambering wildly, into the Sky.
From that which brings life, and that which brings death,
Given reign full, from God's own breath.
Hidden below, in the wonders amiss,
lives that horrible mistake, who quells in the abyss.
Infinite forms, and uncountable fears like a glacier;