Stanza 1 : The glories of our blood and state are shadows. They are not concrete things. There is no armour against Fate. Death lays his cold hands even on kings. Sceptre and Crown, the symbols of a king, will fall down and they will be made equal with the sickle and spade, the tools and symbol of poor people.
Stanza 2: Some men may reap the fields with sword and plant fresh victories where they kill. But their strong nerves finally become weak. Early or late they have bend low before their fate and must give up their breath. Finally they also die, as poor, pale prisoners of fate.
Stanza 3 : The garlands on your brow dry up. So do not boast about your great actions. Upon the purple altar of death the victor and the vanquished bleed alike. However great you are, your head must come to the cold tomb. Only the good actions of the just people will flower in the dust and smell sweet.
Message: Death levels everyone. He treats all alike. All, kings and clowns, scholars and the illiterate, the rich and the poor, end up in dust.
