For all the worries in your head,
all the tears that you have shed,
will we all know what it meant,
when we reach our life's ending?

And the rain stains the path,
to the stagnant Roman Bath,
to the fall of consciousness,
we call the Garden of Eden.

The forgotten circumstance,
of humanity's romance,
with a lifetime in the sun,
that'll last through the centuries.

And the truth in Emerald stone,
no matter how much wind has blown,
will whistle through the night,
to serve a reminder,

of the scope that we have spurned,
forgetting everything we've learned,
settling for the dregs,
in this pitiful freedom,

where we vote for men in suits,
and some purple-hearted brutes,
who sing in colloquial joy
for the empire's end-game.

Is this all that we have left,
from all the blood in sorry theft?
For all the tears that have soaked
into the fibres of tomorrow?

Because upon my gentle heart,
and in the poetry of art,
I still kindle for that loss
I have felt in my division.