Welcome all you lords
and all you ladies so fine,
come and listen to my chronicle, 
to the chronicle of nine.

I’ve come to sing you a ballad,
just a rhyme, you might say,
without reason, though it does tell a sad story
and the story is reason enough.

What does anything mean of itself 
and in itself save that it is a part of something else?
Life happens, does it not?
An herb flower, pulled from its bed,
dies but lives, to flavor food.

Saving your presence,
my lords and ladies,
come and listen to my chronicle,
to the chronicle of nine.