Revolution, A constitution of new born rights, as all hearken to your unquestioned might. But I wonder, in your flight, This pillage, like fashion plights, What good is it to change, have war? Over futile things, Politics against lore? What good is it to change? If man cannot from freedom strange immerse perfection, and break the chain to end unending woeful pain? For if man cannot subdue evil will then the vial of purity we seek to fill inside us, will shortly spill, and then what? We disagree and stride our struts for new things, and new rules, "O my!" "Revolution? Why?!" Unclenched, revived? Evil gloom is this to be our uttermost doom?