Events as yet folded in the scroll of Time reflect in the mirror of my perception.

Neither the planets, nor the spinning skies; only my bold song can tell you your destiny.

Either my sighs are devoid of fire, or else your straw and thorns as yet retain some sap.

Yet perchance my morning song may quicken the fire that your dust contains:

The dust that will break the spell of the passing time one day, though it is entangled in the skein of Fate as yet.