Somewhere in this evening’s dawn,

Seven black pawns passing on,

Through the night of heaven’s march,

We sing – and we die – withdrawn.

In the morning try to find,

Six white castles in the sky,

Floating tall above the clouds,

Sleeping through the heat thereby.

The afternoon – if it comes,

Five black horses shall succumb,

Underneath a painful sword,

Warriors become no more.

Fore the low sun makes us cold,

Four white bishops digging holes,

To put dead ones underground,

Before heaven’s fold is found.

But when night comes – sing out loud,

Three black queens will tumble down,

Putting end to royal blood,

Setting down their crowns in mud.

Now - count the stars out one-by-one,

Two white kings – their time is done,

They fought fiercely on the field,

Till the moon slid hind the sun.

Fore this dynasty is gone,

One more black pawn passes on,

Joining ranks in heaven’s march,

Next to dead men’s meadowlark.