Wine and joy are completely forgotten, 
As well as his armor and sword. 
Alone he descends in the rotten 
Mysterious dungeon. The door 
Is squeaking with long drawn sound 
For no one has entered inside. 
The dark and the damp reign around. 
The window is narrow and high. 
 
His eyes grow accustomed to the gloom and 
Through the dust and the web he explores 
Some strange marks, emerging and looming 
On the floor, on the vaults, on the walls. 
He gazes at the marks? interlacement 
At those incomprehensible signs 
And tarries for Death to embrace him 
To enlighten his soul and eyes.