I slumber throught my years, like the desert moves with the wind.
Frozen and flickering, the lustful year has met its end.
A wanderer I am indeed...
...the son of the moon...
and I will carry mountains soon.
A burden I was for those who woke the sun.
I threw their masks away, lit my torches and burned their eyes.
Forgiven I never was.
But I will carry mountains soon.
A burden, is it not?
Kneeling I chose my faith,