Great indeed is the mass of all saints!

On the eve of the Halloween night,

What will they make you to become?

Will they make you the head of a rat

Or the arm of an insect or a boar body?

Where will they take you to?

Wherever will they tell you to go,

East, west, south or north,

You simply follow their order.

If they are hastening your death,

And you do not quietly submit to them,

You will be obstinate and rebellious.

Yes, there's great mass of uncanny nature;—

I find the support of my soul and body in it;

My life is spent in toil on it; my ageing

Seeks ease on it; at death I find rest on it;

What has made my life a good here

Will make my death also a good there.

Here and now, on the eve of the mass-day,

All the saints are casting their metal alloy:

If the alloy were to leap up in the pot

And say, "I must be made into a sword,

Like the famously known Katana steel,"

All the saints great mass would be sure

To regard it as uncanny, man. So, again,

When a form is being fashioned

In the mould of the womb, if it were to say,

"I must be a man; I must become a man,"

All the saints great mass would be sure

To regard it as uncanny, oh, my poor soul. . .

When we once realise that Heaven and Earth

Are nothing else but a great melting-pot,

Where can we have to go to that shall not

Be right for us, my friend? We all are born

As from a quiet sleep, and we certainly die

To a calm awaking on the mass-day of all saints!