Like wearing iron boots are the legs
While they are walking in sceptic steps;
They trail anchors of questions,
And push the route in doubtfulness.
To do, not to do – like an effortless fort
With open portcullis for the horde;
Like sceptic centurions wearing the mort
As armor, and despair as sword.
Heavy marching thunders the roads,
And trembles the heavens;
While simple facts are the calling roars,
They sound like mere hallucinations.
No flower remains unsquelched,
No road leads to an end;
The past, present and future merged
In a wasted, wasted land.
The ground wasn’t touched by my legs
When I left my fairy castle;
No dreams, hopes on the steppes
I am, with myself in a big hustle.
Like wearing iron shackles on my feet,
And a sack on my head;
It seems obscure to run or defeat
The fairy roads ahead.