(…so that you may take along the guardian of the hour of this day and hour, whose name is thrapsiari morirok, so that, appearing, he may give his response in the good hours: eōrō rōre ōrri ōriōr rōr rōi ōr reōrōri eōr eōr eōr eōre).

Ancient time was not a smooth line but a population. Every day and every hour of it had a ruler — a hōronómos, an 'hour-allotter' — and to act at the right time meant getting that specific power on your side. So at the very summit of the prayer, having asked for immortality itself, the initiate slips in a scheduling clause: bring the guardian of this hour along too, the one named thrapsiari morirok, so that when he shows up he will chrēmatísēi — 'give a response,' the technical word for an oracle answering — and do it 'in the good hours.' It is a startlingly practical request lodged inside a cosmic one, and it tells you how these people lived: astrologically, hour by hour, each slot of the day open or closed, benign or dangerous. And then the sentence stops meaning and starts sounding. The parenthesis ends in a long chain of ō's and e's — eōrō rōre ōrri… — the hour-guardian's own voice, or the sound that summons it. You do not translate a name like that; you say it, and the vowels roll like the hours themselves turning over.