There is a sadness soothing to the soul,
And with its smoothing, Herakles made whole.
And deep within him, pealed a bell,
And those who hear, must harken well:
For from the void, its rhythms swell,
And all contrivance shall it quell!
For I, who have brought winter on our world,
Whose fists in bloods of innocents have curled,
Do not propose to live but for the day
That something of my past, I wash away.
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