Rise, Rise. The summoner  sounds his morning song.
With a move of the hand, my life he conducts,
And I, like a wind-up dancer, obey all day long,
Never dancing to my song, which he obstructs.
Rise, Rise. Join the daily, degenerating strum,
Which occupies our bodies, but leaves our minds to wander
Where we could have gone? Or perhaps become?
While we drone on in labor, and true life squander.
O Time, you ensnare us in the pursuit for profit,
But allot us no room, none at all, to spend it.