Oh this cruelness of fate, I am not yet done.
I will not yet cease from mental fight nor shall my heart in some concession stop beating.
Nor shall my sword sleep idly in my hands, nor will I neglect to lift my shield against thee.
Oh fate, you cruel bitch and son of a whore, I do not accept thine dictates for my own;
And as men before me have become great though few, taking up arms against you and your certainties, and defeating you subduing you;
And though the number of those men who've conquered you be so small that I can count them on fingers, and still yet not drop the sword from my grasp;
Still, all this and yet, oh fate, I dare stand up and challenge thee as did they;
For I shall not whimper as the light in me dims, fearful of the encroaching night;
I do not know if the light in my eyes be there or not, but there is light in my spirit yet to fight;
And light to protect and spread about, to share in love with others, in defiance of death and defeat;
That is the light I protect, whether or not it be seen by men or not or one or all;
It is the light that can stay defeat, and drive back the dark in all of it's awful and popular might;
For this light, this hope, I shall giddily defy,
And draw my blade to fight a thousand myself alone:
For there be few greater reasons for which man can die,
than for true love, and for that love to survive and be sown.