Έφεκς
μόδνε
αμεκους,
ιάσπες
νοξευμαίν,
όσπερ
λευξ
εί.
Υπεροσμάν
λέξουμ,
σοεμαλές
μερινάμ
λελυκαίναι
μορεμευσής,
όσπερ
νύξ
ζεφύρ
γραίφς
γοθμούν
φερδνεμεύς
φούσμερ
δενδραίς
φηκάλιουμ
φεξαμάς
ώμεν
γραίφς
αμήν
λείψαμ
λελυκάσι
λέξουμ,
σοεμαλές
μερινάμ
λελυκαίναι
μορεμεν
υσής
σεμαλφίς
ώμεν.
The scent of myrrh and incense permeates the room.
The silence enveloping you is thick, almost suffocating.
It is so quiet, in fact, that you seem to hear it,
a constant humm resonating in the space,
it's vibrations piercing your thought and calming it's unrest.
You can't shake the feeling that you are being watched,
like your every action is being actively contemplated on
by an invisible judge and jury.
Silently, you wait for a verdict.