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I turn my sight from the fruitless negation
To the ideal that was too fearsome to face
I turn my gaze judging others
To my own principle of action
What sense was there to think
That an ideal should come along in flesh and blood?
And if it somehow did
What would there be left of its loftiness?

I turn the consuming flame of hatred
Into nurturing heat of the inner of sun
And the coldness of despair
To calmness in my striving
Is it not faith in the idea
Which gives energy to its denial?
Fear rather than hardness
That mocks fragility?

Yet in all I face an insurmountable barrier
No matter how I try, it is hardly a glimpse
Of what I absolutely ought to be
And there´s no longer the solace in misanthropy

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