Along the chasm’s edge, upon the precipice’s brink
I urge my horses onward, I coerce them whiplash flying.
I’m somehow short of breath, I gulp the air, the wind I drink...
I’m gripped with mortal ecstasy: I’m dying, oh, I’m dying!

Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
Pay no heed to the lash’s taut thong.
The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
I’ve not lived out my life, I can’t finish my song.

I’ll water my horses, I’ll sing some more verses -
Yet a moment I’ll stand on the brink ere I sink.

I’ll perish: from its outstretched hand the frenzied wind will blow me,
At a gallop through the morning snow my sleigh’s drawn helter-skelter.
Be patient, patient, wayward horses, make the journey slowly,
And delay if but a while before we reach the final shelter.

Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
You don’t serve the lash or the thong.
The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
I’ve not lived out my life, I can’t finish my song.

I’ll water my horses, I’ll sing some more verses -
Yet a moment I’ll stand on the brink ere I sink.

It’s all over: guests to God cannot delay until the morrow.
But why then should the angels’ voices sound so harsh and hoarse?
Is it but the harness bell that jangles wildly out of sorrow,
Or do I harangue the horses to slow down their hectic course?

Slower, slower, oh my horses, slowly run, slowly run!
I implore you, don’t gallop headlong!
The horses that fell to my lot are unruly ones...
I’ve not lived out my life, yet I’d finish my song.

I’ll water my horses, I’ll sing some more verses -
Yet a moment I’ll stand on the brink ere I sink.