You govern rhythm of mans semantics
And thus thou art loved by many for much
The source of animosity's antics
Yet thou prod the heart to r'solve things as such
Serve for some weary, an impalpable crutch
Concurrently thou can take away rest
And leave lowly man with oh, but a touch
Of thine own harmony, rings in his breast
Through long courts of light thou leadeth your guests
And guide with bright eyes their pitiless gait
But show them the door quite promptly unless,
By chance they're themselves the weavers of fate.

To thine be the glory and honor and yet
From where you draw power we too oft' forget.