The Ivy and Laurel

The ivy and laurel have made our crown And touch of the hand that's forgotten, that's gone. But thorn creeps through pain and it sizzles with snake It doesn't call feast, deepest grave - it will make. So, why do we choose our lyre killing time?.. But souls are still young, oh, my god, save my rhyme. And give me the reason and push me to truth And seize all these wishes of eternal youth. Oh, thorn, leave my forehead, don't make me feel down The ivy and laurel have made our crown.