The breeze of the night is blowing
By, the holy fires of yester are quenched
Because, their watchers had taken to deep deep sleep
By which the strength were by weakness influenced
Costly were the acts of the great men
But death and grave spared not these nobles!
Their wealth of labours are drained with ease
In the custody of visionless labourers.
I was panged by the cries of the mighty ones
Their tears I tasted, so sour
I felt the heart ache of dead visionary
Mourning over their very precious rigours,
Fading with regrets into the grave.
Those who do not know the cost of labour,
Should no dwell in the coast of exploit
Do not entrust them with treasures of visions,
They are only ordinary in the enemyís toast.
Only those who posses the mind of the visionary,
Can carry out and along their labours faithfully.
They are just another exploit worker
They shall sail the ship in equal faith to victory
As would have been done by the dead men of vision
Do not entrust men who had no vision with yours,
They are barren and wonít be conceived with either theirs or yours.
Cradles with visions are more living souls,
Than the crowd of giants who cannot live with one.