He whom existence itself has marked,
Walks onwards...
Below decrepid bones a path,
narrow alley below oaken skies.
Which leave but few gaps
For higher lights to pass.

His obscure forest of time, [bad word] 
Cross!
Or [bad word] yourself...

He whom existence itself has marked,
With pirecing irons of twisted irrationality, [bad word] through.

narrow path nestling between thorns,
Rampant bushes, wild and intransparent,
Which appear to keep ahold of him,
To seize the irrational king,
Now victim, now prey,
To reaching arms, summoned by himself.

passage, so narrow, so unsafe,
Leaves little space to evade
these claws,
over constant periods of time.

Annual steps beyond his path of sanity,
Have not remained annual,
As he discovered his ability,
To stumble over the same vicious rocks,
Which had encountered a million times before.

Dodging these rocks,
Will force him into all eternity,
To bow,
To the sprouting green endless,
Once seeds he himself had sown...