When our dreams sublime,
Like we are stained by failure,
We carve out by constantly flowing,
Like a small stream itself,
Finding out your way
Rise up like a fountain,
To travel much in the sky,
By misery of virtue,
We ought to remember the grounds,
We yet stand again
Isn't toiling a type of spinning?
If man propose what God dispose,
Yet for us virtue ennobles,
Waking against the thirst of doubt,
Just another day to be compelled,
Yesterday dinner wasn't good.