Where the saints are not born, where they rise from the dirt,
Where the only great banners left are your own,
Where fires are frozen but their songs can be heard,
The skies fall over the edge and into times unknown.
To measure roads to nowhere is not without cost,
And so you weave the souls of the dead in a thread.
Let them yell, "Stop, you fool! You have already lost!"
For all barring none have paid their debt ahead.
To run into dawn, to dance with eternity,
To greet Death with a laugh at the end of the line,
Feel free to dream worlds in all their ubiquity
And drown all your sorrows in chalices of wine.
Drifting clouds are but butter and tears, aren't they?
Let the oaths and the pledges be burnt at the stake.
Those who fall into the abyss, soon their minds break
And forever forget the words "death" and "dismay".
Thus you stray without living in this fair madness,
Trusted cane, pointy beard, always so very grand.
Playing rigged games with heroes who, with great sadness,
Lose their lives to the Mad God that roams through the land.
A new challenge? A bet? A dispute? You are in,
Evidently. You care neither for glory nor wealth.
The enemy? Trivial. Friend? Unessential.
You will always end up only fighting yourself.