No rules ordained by conjured ones,
no truths bestowed through sacred trance,
no divination's frail fruit,
to rule over this moving Earth.

All inspiration put to test,
Council of Reason over it,
probing for Trojan poisons hid
beneath its skin of resonance.

Must fight to earn its place among
the walls that wall our wayward minds.
Must fight to keep its place among
the rules that rule our moving kind.

No privilege granted to words,
uttered with great convictioned tone.
No kneeling like weak subjects there
before the ones invoking god.

All thoughts, submit... to changing times!
Relent! And play your part in this.
Like fluid, carry us along.
Flow with us. Serve our moving kind.

Traditions, quaint, yet binding us,
will not survive the flow of time.
Whatever ways will not adapt,
will soon be stricken from this world.

Relentless river, moves all things -
thus clear, yet still some stubborn balk.
In panicked fret they try to cling
in desperation, to the banks.

But all things will be swept along
by this momentous churning tide.
No dam can thwart this river's run,
no net ensnare our moving kind.

Organic, willful, wayward, wild -
untamed, nor ever to be tamed -
a game where, as the rules are learned,
new rules are born to spurn our skill.

Yet those who would not play this game,
who would the rules remained the same,
would not surrender to caprice,
slip on the snake skin prophet's veil.

Would bind us with envenomed words:
ideas poisoned by bitter wish
for movement to stagnate in pools -
no movement for our moving kind.

Such thieves steal from the Vision Child -
to please those of their wicked fold,
with gilded spite spiced in our pain -
kept back from where our hearts belong.

They will not last, nor will prevail.
The power of the rush, too strong.
The force that's built so long till now -
unhearing... answers to no one.

So, sentiment for modes of yore
bares brief delight but little sway,
soon washed away by minds erased
and born anew in life's great turn.

We owe no debt to any past,
there is - only - one debt we owe:
a debt of freedom, owed to you -
you, later, of our moving kind.