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Poem

You do not need the gods to be great,
feast not on the seeds of false fate.
Soar to the skies, sit at the shore of destiny,
tomorrow belongs to hope and harmony:
harmony of faith in the field of fears
and trust in the terrain of terrible tears.
Let us woo wisdom in a world of worries,
tommorow is a mansion of mysteries.

You do not need the gods to be great,
treasure each moment, tomorrow will wait.
Sit not on life's throne of thraldom,
we are slaves sold to the fold of freedom.
Bitter is the root of reality, taste the truth;
life will bow down to a dogged youth.

We do not need the gods to be great,
cowards are people without a common plate.
Where love is lost, life is imprisoned;
wars of woes will get salted and seasoned.
Look not behind, it is the hall of history,
before you lies the mountain of mystery.
Look not around, it is decked with distraction;
look within and plunge into the pool of passion.

The gods are dead,
they know not what lies ahead.
Ask not for rain when there are no seeds,
feed not your fate with dead deeds.

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