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 covenís 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.