Uncertain Midnight fogs our land
And Art - a farce - has severed, split
So Artifice presiding sits.
Yet on the Barre's tide-swept sea-sands
There lives a Man, and He commands
With broken chain about His wrists
And broken chain on those enlist
To carry out His fetters grand;

What freedom is this farce, we ask
If freedom fetters fierce as locks:
May tyrants fall, may false folk break,
May fractured forces cede Thy wake!
Bound by Your verse, we Truth-fast walk
Our freedom's chains give choice in task.

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 1st of Severin, in the year 473 MA.