How quick your weight presses forcefully.
The heaviness of mediocrity.
Or is it lightness with which you dress your plea?
To draw me and to stem my flee?

And greatness is a dull heart ache.
And great the steps too afraid to take.
But such a throbbing will not abate.
Anyone whom their lives they stake.

For the trees where underneath respite.
Limbs in winds will bend and sigh.
And at once the cicadas come alive.
To pry the crust from your foggy eyes.

And greatness is a dull heart ache.
And great the steps too afraid to take.
But such a throbbing will not abate.
Anyone whom their lives they stake.

But a quick too many years have passed.
Having been caught in the looking glass.
Our gaze has laid not but on the past.
These thoughts for naught we see at last.

And greatness is a dull heart ache.
And great the steps too afraid to take.
And blasé is the breath that waits.
And meanders in each moments wake.