The old tablets are crushed, the new values are writ,
Thou shalt be overcome, stone of tomorrow’s bridge,
Treaded upon by higher men with greater wit.
Thy vesper approacheth. Sink deep, lonely vagrant.

Under shallow waters, the creeks still flow and hum,
For one final secret thou have yet to ponder:
The melancholy art of knowing when to die.
Thy vesper approacheth. Sink deep, lonely vagrant.

Hath this journey been life? Let us walk it again!
Yearn for eternity, but leave not pain behind,
So that thou may conquer thy evening as today.
Thy vesper approacheth. Sink deep, lonely vagrant.

But before, hear my words from the wide blue yonder.
I am the harbinger of truly joyful news,
So listen very carefully, listen closely,
I come not to burn down thy silent shrines in vain.

I offer three words, three daggers to pierce thy shroud,
And they remain loyal on these crooked pathways.
Vagrant, carefully ponder my abysmal thoughts,
I come not to burn down thy silent shrines in vain.
Beware my three words, for they thunder in the skies,
Beware my three words, for their meaning was once lost,
Beware my three words, for they swiftly ride the winds.
Once cognized, they strike down all shadows of despair.

They are simple, or else they would not lightly fly,
They lie, or else their truth could not hide from danger,
For not all minds withstand them with a lion’s might.
My three words are none other than these: Death Came Thrice.

First rode Death through the hills where crimson berries thrive,
With pale white hands a blind rainbow-clad dame he snatched,
And willows, ashes, oaks, and pines all wept bereaved,
For virgin feet no longer trotted in their shades.

Virgin hands no longer caressed their wooden trunks,
And daisies no longer crowned her soft golden mane.
Death then ruled the hills where crimson berries once thrived,
And innocence slept deep beneath their fair meadows.
Secondly, Death galloped through once famed corridors,
Iron hooves left no marble statue standing there.
Sight was begotten soon after his first conquest,
But the host’s sharp eyes had dried before his coming.

The host’s tall castles were inherited by dust,
His teachings only found carved on shattered tablets.
Death’s second host thought he would be sempiternal,
But none of his gathered knowledge could halt Death’s march.

Thirdly, Death strode into a solitary cave.
In the misty cavern dwelt no wrath or sorrow,
But a withered man with his table set for two.
Death was also invited to the feast of Life.

The eternal return was praised in the merry feast,
The old man’s elven songs of joy filled his stone halls.
After Death’s third coming, the soul danced blind with Life,
Born anew in the hills where crimson berries thrive.

Embrace the eternal return, thrice dead rise again,
So that the willow’s cry may be deafened again,
So that glory may reign in thy castles again.
Songs of elven sorrow again shall joyful be…