“Meaninglessness does not come
From a weariness of pain but meaninglessness
Comes from a weariness of pleasure.”

...Slain by my own sword.
The temple to myself abandoned,
The religion of my life now a heresy: “lo pan!”
I chased the wind,
But I only caught my hoof.
I played my flute,
But no one danced: “dance for me!”

Truth is found in the lifeless deep
Where pain and anguish never retreat.
Despair, being mother to us all,
Has summoned me with her death rattle call.
Dark and warm, black and void,
The blessed place where I am destroyed.
She let me back into her womb;
She let me present it was my tomb.

Holy, holy, holy, despair,
Bless me with anguish,
And break off my horns.
Holy, holy, holy despair,
Exalt me with sorrow,
And crown me with thorns
Here I sit in the elms,
Slain by my own sword.
The temple to myself abandoned, the religion
Of my life now a heresy: “lo pan!”

I chased the wind,
But I only caught my hoof.
I played my flute,
But no one danced: “dance for me!”
Death has taken me out of spite
For my unyielding despair in life

Where my useless poems and songs
Give no right account of all my wrongs
I am the worst, blest and curst
This is silent end of my life,
Worshipping the so-called God of the knife
Holy, holy, holy