A Song

Sing your song, O my friend,
Like devils chanting through mystery vapors.
So what if the people hear you?
Nobody has been crucified here for a thousand years.
The oracle might laugh at you,
But she was sold into a harem a fortnight ago.

Sing your song, O my friend,
Like devils chanting through mystery vapors.
Never mind your tavern girls,
Sing to the mountains!
Crane your neck and stretch thy lungs,
As though possessed by Orpheus or Muses divine.

Sing your song, O my friend,
Like devils chanting through mystery vapors. 
The magicians will hear you sooner than the beggars,
Then finally the workhouse slaves clutching sad crusts of bread,
Such wretched unfortunates that pale in comparison to the night,
The sacred night of horrors, dear to Artemis!