| There’s got to be a reason
|
| There’s got to be a meaning
|
| For all this effort marked
|
| By centuries of questions and doubts
|
| I was blinded, turned deaf to speech
|
| My hair turned grey, my flesh a rot
|
| Every thought stillborn and my soul turned bliss
|
| For I know nothing
|
| The gods resented my plead
|
| Thus I turned three hundred years old
|
| Without having learned anything
|
| All this pondering, it’s made me sway
|
| All this to make out the one final question
|
| I was blinded, turned deaf to speech
|
| My hair turned grey, my flesh a rot
|
| Every thought stillborn and my soul turned bliss
|
| For I know nothing
|
| The gods resented my plead
|
| Thus I turned three hundred years old
|
| Without having learned anything
|
| In dark and lonely hours
|
| I sought to find the heart of our creation
|
| Never could I dream of what
|
| I found by the greatest hexagram
|
| For I know nothing
|
| The gods resented my plead
|
| Thus I turned three hundred years old
|
| Without having learned anything
|
| The thesis of God, the search for Magick
|
| Made me at first seek, then bow to a truth I didn’t want to know
|
| For I know nothing
|
| The gods resented my plead
|
| Thus I turned three hundred years old
|
| Without having learned anything |