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Always focusing on the next new maze,
And rain always represents bad days.
Love is nothing but a foreign myth,
And the flowers make their decisions herewith.
The soldier stands up tall and proud
As Athens lies in pure white shroud.
Thoughts of the philosophes are weak and few;
Steadily the clouds in the sky accrue.
Delegation of this criminal warfare
Causes the pity of which I forswear.
For love is nothing but a foreign myth,
And my roses make their decisions herewith.
Hand to my heart and gun to my head,
Still I press through to the waiting rose bed.