Played with Loki’s own craftOut-witting and out-planning everyone but yourselfYes, that’s the only truth they knowOh, how well they paint and discolor itAll to harvest the village yam

On the day we all meet God, I sure have a thousand stories to tellOf the ruled and the unruled.

People wet their appetite and zestWhen they can mouth ill of othersHate is a source of inspiration

When the thundering trumpet bellowsIt shall untune the sky with its choirsThe death of all disdainful consIsn’t that the height of passion?On that day shall all bright embers sparkle again.

Of all hope we hadOf all songs we sangOf all dreams we caressedBut yet, it’s still like the morning

Steps by steps many thread the pathAs the gentle shrub grows, grows the lineEach day a history shelved in the flatsAs nature wet wits and dries our wilesTill we all go to bed and never apart

The soft sauntering of anguishNever lets the gullible knowThat he who seeks to plunderMust be armed by some godsAnd be armored in Damascus steel

A loosened spirit is what I seekSo I can thread the vast land of illumination

Hey, you horror of shade and loomShall find me unafraid and unfazedThe bloody wounds and strait gates matters notI, the unbowed captain of my fateShall place the bludgeoning sage of chance away