To Fate,
If ever thy life’s blade run dull, then turn to you will I
If ever thy treasured rose does wilt, then out your name I shalt cry.
If ever thy golden thread is cut,
Compare bitter ends to doors yet shut.
I prize thy murals on thine wall more than prophecies yet told,
Or all the promised riches thy hands could ever hold.
My tale is laying still yet made,
Nor has thine mortal debts been paid.
Thy maiden is at thine side no more, yet thy eyes shalt not bleed
To thouth name, Mighty Fate, do I plead,
Then while too soon thy life doth end,
That when thy maiden weeps, a blessing thy lord doth send.