Soothe and joy flow towards,

groping for this thing one,

let the pious wall records,

to live the dream, you have nothing done.

Without any will,

without any toil,

what will be your skill,

for your doting soil.

Verity is clear,

your vision is lost,

triading the sphere,

which is triaded by most.

Heedless are all,

living for win,

planning gameball,

which is akin to sin.

Let the ray, end this dim,

apt juncture for ego trim,

you can't run, away from grim,

unless you make others to brim...