You share a bit with all, and many are the same.
Recall that’ s been the way since ancient times.
And we all repeat, both the great and the pure,
like childern who yet know not their names.
Others share our might and sins with us,
our dreams are from the common spring.
And our soul’ s food is from the common bowl,
the stamp of self lies in the centre of our brow.
We stand one against another, in the knowledge
that we are all better, together, all darkness,
and our blood, the defeat of all, in slaughter,
is again just one history of souls.