The gods eat their feel and rumble,
When filled with the wine of prayers, their eyes becomes on as lightening,
For they wrap the woolly cloud round their bulk,
And the thorny edge crown cycling their crowned crown.
For so pure is their majesty,
And flawlessly do they mould the folds of the earth.
Man lives only to die,
For the soul finds it route back to it root,
For it is born of immortality,
And it dines with the webs of spirituality.
For when it works this earth of toils,
And takes its shares of thorns,
It yearns to see that hereafter,
That brings the balm to it blistered soles.
For the heart steadily seek for an ultimate goal,
To create a link of eternal promise,
For what is left of lives is being let down,
And the depth of debt the soul owes it edgy that a cleft,
For man seeks to live again,
In another realm free from toils and thorns.
