Three old hermits took the air
By a cold and desolate sea
First was muttering a prayer
Second rummaged for a flea
On a windy stone, the bird.
Though the door of death is near
And what waits behind the door
Three times in a single day
I though upright on the shore,
Fall asleep when i should pray
So the first but now the second
We're but given what we have earned
When all thoughts and deeds are reckoned
So it's plain to be discerned
That the shades of holy men
Who have failed being weak of will
Pass the door of birth again,
And are plagued by crowds, until
They've the passion to escape
Moaned the other, they are thrown
Into some most fearful shape.
But the second mocked his moan
They are not changed to anything.
Having loved god once, but maybe
To a poet or a king
Or a witty lovely lady.
While he'd rummaged raags and hair
caught and cracked his flea the third
giddy with hundredth year
sang unnoticed like a bird