As I walk down the road of Truth,

Its gray borderline guide and say,

That we are all artists enslaved,

Chained from the moment of our youth.

The road enclose upon a hill,

In liberation that it taught,

Where those solemn three trees are sought,

The nigh highway path promise fill,

And as the night approach the dusk,

There doth lonely priests and poets stand,

Desperate Grasping at the sand,

For they do know that all is dust.

This is their worried combat cry,

Bracing their painful selfless task.

Burdened, they have the right to ask,

Would a loving God let us die?

Eyes pear up in hope for the day,

Fire forges souls on this path.

Willingly attract evil’s wrath,

All for Love’s unwavering way