Sentient beings, or puppets of fate
When, by free will or by command,
They- with vehement threads of hate-
Decant the numbness of my hand
To be Acheron's vicariates.

Black sentinels of my torment
They haunt every abode of rest
And flaunt their hoary adornement
Over the arch of my behest;
A crumbled wall of laments.

Giant companions by my side,
They shade the embers of joys
Of when I danced with Etesians' tide
And tasted the feeling that cloys,
In the garden of the Hesperides.