Through the mist of time, when legend became myth
On the sacred mountain, the oracle awaits
Since the age of heroes prophecies to spread
Kings to save their kingdoms
Heroes to fulfill their fate
Among the shadows, the priestess breathing python's breath
Speaks the mystic oath behind the pure white veils
Spoken riddles, words without sense
Suddenly become a searching quest
Spartan messengers the oracle approach
Through misthroughted plains
They invoke their gods
Their advice to take through divinations words
How to rule their fate by the will of gods
Pythia (Apollo's seer):
- O ye men who dwell in the streets
of broad Lacedaemon!
Either your glorious town shall be sacked
by the children of Perseus
Or in exchange, must all through
the whole Laconian country
Mourn for the loss of a king
descendant of great Heracles,
He cannot be withstood by
the courage of bulls nor of lions
Strive as they may, he is mighty as Jove;
there is naught that shall stay him
Till he have got for his prey your king
or your glorious city..."
This is the riddle given to Spartan messengers
Sorrow fills their heart for what they fate demands
That the King must be sacrificed and so salvation comes
Their eyes full of despair for what dark omen given
Such a heavy price on altar's victory
