Mars ever declares himself the victor, always;
True only to what he is and what he feels
and common sense; zeal
Is passion unabated in the haze; the phrase
Is justice set above all love or hate
That cannot truly satisfy. The abyss, my friend; he stands and stares.
Who sees the ends before beginnings will not pay the fare
And will not hear the pebble drop. Too late,
It seems, he draws the line with single eyes
Or hairs removed and split from heedless heads.
He wills and the wine is crimson, so it’s said;
He loves himself and all who love him; he flies
From those for whom he’s longed and denies he’s ever erred.
Impertinence, sweat upon his brow; bile, his denial that he’s ever cared.