Over this rough, well-trod path we walk,
Hand in hand, we talk and balk at naught;
Strangers in a strange land of thick sand.
Our minds are tightly bound to the sound
Of rushing wind mighty Caelum sends
To bend and ere break trend of our thoughts.
Our spirits are strong to mend the wounds
Inflicted by the wrong of mad men
Bent on our destruction and our end.