I'm looking at the painting on the corner of the wall
The master left it for his student in his winding hall
The strokes are like a melody, perfect in its tune
The paint is dull and arabesque within the dim-lit room
Old and misremembered as his greatest masterpiece
I hear, through mists of parted time, the master speak to me:

Shall I be thrust upon a dusty crucifix?
Shall I be cast in iron, nails within my wrists?
Or will I be remembered as a jester of the stars?
Will they say I killed a man just to eat his heart?
Shall they say my name in vain, am I a vagabond?
Will they build a monument, will they carry on?
Or shall I be interred in silence, laid next to my wife?
Will my children cry for me, or celebrate my life?
Will the sun be cut upon the mountains of the east?
Will revolution splash and spill, will tyrants ever cease?
Shall owls be perched upon the crowns of oak, maple, and ash?
Shall groaning yellow branches break with a sudden lash?

I'm looking at the painting which so captivates my soul
The master left it for me to discover my own role
The strokes are like a telegraph commanding me to yield
The paint is like a spear exposing my weak heel
An homage to the master who awaits the answer true:
Through the mists of parted time we shall remember you