O soul for which nothing existed too great! And see, these hands
Clasp the void and take hold on nothing!
O vanquished soul! O futile thing that I am!
Miserably, O miserably have I been cast to the earth and slain!
The Centurion: Answer us, Tête-d'or! Who will establish justice among the people? The justice that rests on force?
The King: Certainly I have failed in my promises.
But it matters little.—I wish, I wish—
The Centurion: You have not received, having given.
The King: I could not do it! I could not do it, I am not a god.
In what have I been lacking? Where do you find my fault?