The soul of man was made to walk the skies.
Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
When men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more.
There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
A foe to God ne'er was true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does.