The storm is master. Man, as a ball, is tossed twixt winds and billows.
I feel an army in my fist.
Lose not yourself in a far off time, seize the moment that is thine.
The mountain cannot frighten one who was born on it.
Song forbids victorious deeds to die.
Death is a mighty mediator. There all the flames of rage are extinguished, hatred is appeased, and angelic pity, like a weeping sister, bends with gentle and close embrace over the funeral urn.