Mist draws through the moor Mud soaks through my toes Step by step forward I do not know why Waft of mist surrounds me Grasps me an ungentle embrace I let me draw, as enchanted One step, then the next one Wait! I see nothing, too dense fog I halt the drawing becomes stronger I am struggling, stepping back Voices? I am listening to its sound, only illusion? The fog lifted a bit, I can see the end of the swamp Fighting through moor and mist towards it A poor sparkle shows me the way Drawing more and more to a close It defines itself, a mirror Not yet able to discern Before reaching the end, the veil falls I do not espy any mist, simply human being No moor, but lies, no swamp, mere its religion A religious wasteland, human graveland Faith... Engraved on its tombstone I am leaving the swamp, no turning back I do not take pity on anyone Everyone cuts his own path