That is the gods' work, spinning threads of death through the lives of mortal men, an all to make a song for those to come.
I would rather be a serf in a poor man's house and be above ground than reign among the dead.
A man's life breath cannot come back again-- no raiders in force, no trading brings it back, once it slips through a man's clenched teeth.
Better to flee from death than feel its grip.
Better to live or die, once and for all, than die by inches.
And they die an equal death — the idler and the man of mighty deeds.
Death submits to no one.
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