Stand beside me
Aloft the hurling
Whirl of seasons
Sit aloof upon thy rank
Sound aloud
The trump of thy advent
What moments like these
take we not in vain
the glory of our yearning
To find ones aspiration
Be it renown or prosperity
to rise above what we are
For what have we to lose
In pursuit of what could be
or what should have been
Be not afraid O my beloved
set thy banners aloft
send forth thy emissaries
For this season is thine
thy prospect is ripe
and thy juvenescence is blooming
