As a beast who steals itself away at night From the fields of other fatted kine Who relishes the ripe fruit of his own distinction Without the slavering of lips of swine
No mere matter of poor words He who crafts his own laws Whose right is lucid yet shadowed Remaining unbroken by wars
Onward, onward to supremacy
The reins he seizes of serpents Decisive, resolved in his will Who scorns the fangs of concession Beyond the sphere of thralls
This heir to rule carries a rope, nourished by his own deeds To where those in toil dissipate their futile years With hammer and saw, constructing their own gallows Taking abode in oblivion's hands Heirs, heirs to but loam Heirs, heirs to death
