But what becomes of those who make haste, who waste their given time to waste?
Who scorn at lovers walking by,
Who battle Eros, refuse to fly
Well within their guardians reach
Whos flesh-giving boundaries are impeached?

A tale that’s told a thousand times
But falls on Harpocates ears.
Like he who flies into the sun
each time his tale is told,
As greener leaves they turn to brown
As soon the nights grow cold
It’s written now, the Moirai are set.
All we ask,
Do not forget.