Beneath the roots of the Tree of Life,

The mythical Yggdrasil,

Live the Three Sisters of Fortune,

Three spinners sit weaving still.

Our fortunes favoured, fortunes damned,

Are spun to dusk from dawn,

The destinies of every man

Ordained before we’re born.

Spun threads of rope and threads of silk

And threads of finest gold;

With every one a path of life

The Spinners have foretold.

Embittered entertainment prompts

Their play with our distress;

They weft and warp our misery

With transient happiness.

Even the most blessed threads

May still incur their wrath,

Sometimes are spun through deeper roots

To weave a darker cloth.

The rarest threads, the bravest lives

Led so resolutely,

But as with gold debase to dust

Corrupted absolutely.

They spin the hopes we seek fulfilled,

And bring them dashing down

They weave our ways to where they wish

Then laugh beneath the ground.

Life’s choices are illusory,

And false we have free will;

Oh cruel Sisters of the Tree!

Oh fickle Yggdrasil!