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"Times are not chosen; one lives and dies within them."
In this world, they live, in this world, they fall, And perish, their fate, they answer to its call. No vulgar vice so base, so mean, so low, As whining plaints and debts men seek to owe. As if their lives are coins, so cheaply gained, That traded on market, unfairly strained. A Century of Iron! Gloomy and bleak! But midst the smoke, a wondrous Garden speak, A Cloud a bright gleam, a ray of hope does cast.a bitter defeat. To live in innocence, where no sorrows reside, Where pain and suffering never coincide.
You deem yourself by fortune blessed and crowned. But would you seek Ivan the Terrible's ground? Do you long for to Florence plague, her doom to face, Or Leprosy’s touch, her cursed embrace? You crave the first class, journey fine and grand, And not in the bilge, with slaves and sorrow bound?
A Century of Iron! Gloomy and bleak! But amidst the smoke, a wondrous Garden speak, A Cloud a bright gleam, a ray of hope does cast. I kiss my age, my fate at last I embrace, For Time’s a test, a trial to each race, Envy not another; his battles are his own.
A tight embrace, a closeness true and deep, Time is our skin, where all the secrets sleep, Not just a garment, easily cast aside. Like fingerprints, each soul uniquely marked. With lines of fate, etched deeply in the heart, His features marked on us, we cannot hide.
