Beneath these clouds illusions roll
Against the better half of men;
The others, halved, are charged a toll
To find the limits of their plan.

Awareness at the helm is gripped—
Must caw the crows to no avail?
Lest reason found, its virtues ripped
On broken winds their wings should flail.

If light is capped, it thrusts tenfold,
And taps into the dark of night;
For every feather, gusts of gold
Unto the dawn return in flight.

Away the bitter hearts will shy,
Forever crying, hiding — seek!
What ignorants may soon deny:
With reason dead, all virtues reek.