We march as though the path is ours,
Blind pilgrims under shifting stars.
Cold dice collapse in ashen hands,
Their verdict falls where fate commands.

The serpent coils where ruin waits,
Its venom seals forsaken fates.
One careless turn through streets that rot,
And chance completes the final plot.

The wheel drags rusted spokes through sand,
It carves its scars across the land.
We pray to steer with knuckles raw,
While Fortune grinds us in its maw.

The reaper counts with hollow eyes,
The nameless graves that chance supplies.
We swear our will defies the grave,
Yet Fortune chooses whom to save.

A match may kindle, flames consume
A king dethroned whom worms exhume.
Cards are dealt from the cryptic void,
We falter where all hope’s destroyed.

We haunt our days, vainly proud,
Beneath a pall of thunderclouds.
The cruelest jest forever planned:
The pen is ours, but not the Hand.