Meaninglessness does not come from a weariness of pain but meaninglessness comes from a weariness of pleasure

Slain by my own sword
The temple to myself abandoned
The religion of my life now a heresy: lo pan!
I chased the wind
But I only caught my hoof
I played my flute
But no one danced: dance for me!

Truth is found in the lifeless deep
Where pain and anguish never retreat
Despair, being mother to us all
Has summoned me with her death rattle call
Dark and warm, black and void
The blessed place where I am destroyed
She let me back into her womb
She let me present it was my tomb

Holy, holy, holy, despair
Bless me with anguish
And break off my horns
Holy, holy, holy despair
Exalt me with sorrow
And crown me with thorns
Here I sit in the elms
Slain by my own sword
The temple to myself abandoned, the religion
Of my life now a heresy: lo pan!

I chased the wind
But I only caught my hoof
I played my flute
But no one danced: dance for me!
Death has taken me out of spite
For my unyielding despair in life

Where my useless poems and songs
Give no right account of all my wrongs
I am the worst, blest and curst
This is silent end of my life
Worshipping the so-called God of the knife
Holy, holy, holy