Chapter 23: Origin of the World · Illusions of the Gods (Chapter Four)

At the silent edge of the Netherworld’s dark abyss,

The god of death sits quietly upon the throne of shadows.

His gaze pierces the veil of the soul like a cold star,

And the scales in his hand measure the final truth of the world.

The trays of the scale shimmer with a chilling glow,

One side bearing the sack of one’s deeds of good and evil in life,

Every thought, every step,

Transforms into an invisible weight, placed with precision.

The greedy person’s golden pouch echoes hollowly in the tray,

While the tears of the oppressed weigh a thousandfold.

Hypocritical words disperse like thin smoke,

But a sincere soul shines with pure light.

The coward tries to flee, but cannot escape his gaze,

While the brave one’s medal gleams upon the scale.

He is impartial, letting righteous judgment thunder forth,

Regardless of wealth or status, all return under this law.

Behold, the sinner trembles, as the beam of justice rises high,

While the virtuous walk toward the distant eternal peace.

The god of death, with icy resolve, guards the charter of justice,

Writing the same unchanging hymn through endless ages.

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