Our days here are as one day;
For all our days are rounded in a sleep;
They die and ne'er come back again

Why then dissemble we with a tale of falsehoods?
We are e'en as a day, that's young at morning
And old at eventide, and departs
And never more returns

We are e'en as a day
That's young at morning and old at eventide
And comes again no more

At this regard the weaklings waxed sorе afraid
And drugged themselvеs with dreams and golden visions
And built themselves a house of lies to live in

Then rose a storm with mighty winds and laid it low

And out of the storm the voice of truth resounded
In trumpet tones:
"Man, thou art mortal and needs must thou die."

Our days here are as one day;
For all our days are rounded in a sleep;
They die and ne'er come back again