When the last ovation is eaten up by the night 
Rise from the bier, clown rise, from your bed of wings
 
When the mask is broken to warm the coven’s fire,
Rise from slumber clown, and fold the sweltering shrouds
 
The jests of wasted clowning rent the air,
The firewood of deposed affairs breaks the burning fire.
The garments of runaway nights lie scattered on the paths 
And certain happy mouths fly to the ravenous eyes of flames.
 
The undertakers seek lost accounts to balance their books  
Stretched beyond limits by fictitious numbers and factors. 
The gravediggers are becoming restless and riotous, 
Asking questions hard for the bloated and high tables
 
The paid mourners run around with garlands of debts 
The tunes from the choristers turn sinister and ominous 
 
And the unsettled air returns tumultuous 
Questioning the masks of clowns and clowning;
The shouting statement of the clown, bier..
 
Rise clown, arise from your bed of wings.