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?