For His sake, forsworn into it,
The timing of being, of the particular date.
Within the twelve governers,
Born of mutable fire.
Namesake, be it Leader of Men,
Lest hides behind, timid reflections.
For for his pain, embarrassment, really,
Dost a pitiful entity.
Said to be joy, said to be life,
Inscribed within the sign, in his strife.
Yet when flame is dampened, ashes cooled,
Who is there, to catch the embers, wipe the soot?
Hark, the embodiment of a weary traveller,
Traversing naught but those required.
Dictated, live-not, to that bestowed,
Fate has dealt, for one, a mistaken blow...