Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!One thing at least is certain - This Life flies;One thing is certain and the rest is Lies -The Flower that once has blown forever dies.

This worldthat was our homefor a brief spellnever brought us anythingbut pain and grief;its a shame that not one of our problemswas ever solved.We departwith a thousand regretsin our hearts.

Where is an intimate friend who’ll hear the secret from me straight out– of what human beings have been from the moment they began? They are born of toil and molded from the clay of sorrow.They wander the world for a time, then set off.

My tomb shall be in a spot where the north wind may scatter roses over it.

Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!