But what winds to furl the sails,
That move the ship ashore?
But what means do move the man,
To do what he abhors?

What wishes are there in the mind,
That push the soul to weep?
When in finding those wishes failed,
He ceases his will to keep?

So does stand those of light,
Who deem to say they do,
Protect the weak and live the path,
Of the chosen righteous few.

But what right is there in the path,
That sneers and spits and stays,
Amidst high strung ivory towers,
Of ideals of forgotten ways?

So they say the path of right,
Is the only way to live,
But what truth is there in might,
Forced upon and not to give?

Not a hand offered free,
But a sword at the throat.
"Believe thou heathen or feel my blade!"
Do the righteous gloat.

A call then, a shout, a plea.
A cry for a world where all do breathe,
The air that sings the songs,
Of beliefs un-fought, of ideas free.


Penned by my hand on the 20th of Phaestian, in the year 458 AF.