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There, at the foot of stars

OlympOs hangs, obscured by the clouds

Lest the resound

Of mighty decree deafen mortal men

Or its majesty

Incite the folly within their hearts

To dare ascend

And seek council with immortal ones

Remember thine place, o man

Nary few leave the barren lands

Where no ambrosia grows

Nor sacred nectar flows!

Apollo’s lute weaving songs

Beside the singing Muses, three

Whilst all day long

Laughter fills the hearts of these

Yet in these halls

They fix their gaze on the quarrels of men

So immortality’s din

Does not weigh so heavy on them

The ichor, ceaseless flowing

Through the Gordion hourglass

And yet the years do quicken

Through the vigor of their grasp

Lo! The gods do quarrel!

Strife begot for mortal souls

Heavens sod with grieving

Where might solace be gained from?

For their renowned living

They can’t avert their eyes from thus

“The cry of mortals pleading

Is a lasting snare for us!”