I wander through the palace in the pangs and agony of death,
And I tread my mitre under my feet and like an infant or an animal that one clutches to one's breast,
I hold back with my hands my escaping soul!
The First Watcher: Pardon us, O King.
The Second Watcher: O King, why do you waken us and keep us from sleeping?
Go! Put out the light and lie down with us. Pillow your head on my side. All too soon will come the day.
The light troubles my eyes. I am going to sleep.
(He drops his head on his chest. The king gazes at him and, opening his mouth little by little, begins to yawn.
The Third Watcher: O King, you yourself are yawning!
It is weariness. It is the wind, the exhalation of the void within us.