Great is he, for whom legions speak,
Ruling from the brink of utterance;
All would hear, all would obey
Whatever darkness has to say,
Who counsel seek with the Lord of Silence.

His kingdom’s fortune not once arises
From the depths of its coveted vaults;
Each would make it his own,
To none its mystery is known—
Yet all live bound to the axis of the world.

Behold him who wavers not, yet reposes—
A child of time, the progenitor of death.
He will have found his flocks,
Who can see his golden locks,
Seated in the heart of a deafening quiet.