The worker, clad in cotton, toils to make
the silken robe the idle rich man wears.
Gems in my master's ring are my brow's sweat.
The rubies of his reins are my child's tears.
The Church is fat from leeching on my blood.
My arm is the muscle of a kingdom's heirs.
My tears bid deserts bloom as dawn wind blows
and my heart's blood is glistening in the rose.
Come, for the harp of time is tense with song!
Pour a wine strong enough to melt the glass.
Let's give new order to the tavern-masters
and burn the olden tavern down at last.
Avenge the flower on all who razed the garden,
and seek for rose and bud a better cast.
How long shall we be moths that fall for flame?
How long shall we forget ourselves in shame?