Crave for no more, nor the self that would    Not even that which always is there    Needy of naught, but to be constrained    From any care and want of a selfish urge       What is needed save strengthened will of man    Fulfilment of all that is latent within    What is to fear, what do they hate?    How can they even bear to look at themselves    Those who love to crawl?       Near breaking point    From the bows you've made    Towards the constructed    Deity's power       Reverence due,    not to unseen mights    nor lack of clarity,    but to the well-known, familiar    ever present miracle of the       I, Fountainhead of... progress       How can anyone with serious integrity    abandon all that's left for me    and still be free to seek what's real?    Where's the logic thought,    the one thing that should be guide our way    throughout this solitary state that we call life?       Where's the I, Fountainhead of progress?