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Blow the wind down a thunderous path

Statues, standing tall at the bough

With iron hands, mesolimbic levers

Pain for one, reward for seven

Stride to where the end of a world is

Ruler of a cortex praefrontalis

Immerse – spun in a spindrift

Dessicated domes for a better Rome

Blow the wind down a thunderous path

Without an engine for the haul

Radiance, derived from a fire

Undying, self-propelling draft

Row to where the end of a world is

Arching planks, cortex praefrontalis

Drive into an unknown burning cold

To make them sing of the ore