When I stood a golden mirror before you,
you gazed into my eyes and saw your own image.
Then you said,"I love you."
But in truth you loved yourself in me.

The cursed love nearest to my soul
was a King like you,
a King with an empty castle,
a hermit having abandoned his kingdom.

The naive were once proud in serving the wise master.
Now I claim honor in serving myself.
No faith is an oasis for me to survive.
I yeild to the desire and the indifference of death.
You overruled me to seeking the prayers in pain.

Kneeling before the crown, you ordered,
"Art thou like me?
       ...Art thou like me?
You should choose,
between the joy of this messy world
and the peace of the next."

How noble is the abundant crown,
and how ignoble is the bleeding ring of mine.