Two paths of blood direct my eyes, seeming worlds apart.
In what way must my life convert and must I force my heart?

Is it better of man to spread false wings
and bring himself to bear
a life that less than freedom brings
and scars upon his soul he'll wear?

Or is it better to drown in white
and stain with every color
a life that blinds itself in light
and a presence that grows smaller?

No path have I on which to set my right and solid course,
doubtless one still I will tread.  But be it with pride or with remorse?