Cowardice, and the constant assault on the soul,
Leaves us little choice but to depart to our various retreats,
The Sun, sin and other men poke sabres and laugh,
They turn the key that locks the soul away.
They join together and roll a stone in place at the entrance.
Inscribing some tasteless soliloquy that shames the dead.
But look deep into the pool, beyond the surface,
A fine mutiny is about; the eternal tolerance produces nothing.
But there is a quiet protest, an inquiry that survives,
There is a part of man that muses with reason,
That sad old man that sees the stone roll and feels not,
It is the bowed head and the knowing smile,
It is the short timid moment when we become aware of eternity,
Applaud this precious play, this nurtured innocence, this mutiny.