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