Not born
At ordained hour
Nor reared: in walled palaces
The old the sick, the dead
Have no power
To make me digress.
Fair arms I will not leave
For the thorns of Uruvela far
Nor pleasures put to a sieve
And stop a bloody war
No royal charioteer leads me
I walk on foot
Miss the bus, smirk at deeds
Done in darkness, by daylight refute.
Nor do I know my soul goes where When I tell a
tie, betray a friend I wonder if it is really there
Too busy with body, on soul to tend
Thus I will go from year to year
carrying my burden, blunt, coarse
Just wise enough to fear
The mob's killing spree and stay indoors.