In The Lack Of Judgment

Old Men, What Are They? Fast Fading The Leaf, Three-footed They Walk, Yet Frail As A Child, As A Dream Set Afloat In The Daylight.

With Our Own Feathers, Not By Others' Hands, Are We Now Smitten.

The Gods At Will Can Shape A Gladder Strain, And From The Lamentations At The Graveside, A Song Of Triumph May Arise.

Against Necessity, Against Its Strength, No One Can Fight And Win.

Old Men Are Children Once Again A Dream That Sways And Wavers Into The Hard Light Of Day.