Crave for no more, nor the self that would Not even that which always is there Needy of naught, but to be constrained From any care and want of a selfish urge
What is needed, save strengthened will of man Fulfillment of all that is latent within What is to fear, what do they hate? How can they even bear to look at themselves Those who love to crawl?
Near breaking point From the bows you've made Towards the constructed Deity's power
Reverence due, not to unseen mights Nor lack of clarity, but to the well known, familiar Ever present miracle of the I, fountainhead of progress
How can anyone with serious integrity Abandon all that's left for me And still be free to seek what's real? Where's the logic thought?
The one thing that should be guided our way Throughout this solitary state that we call life? Where's the I, fountainhead of progress?