 The rhythm of time, by Bobby Sands, there's an inner thing in every man, do you know this thing my friend? It has withstood the blows of a million years, and will do so to the end. It was born when time did not exist, and it grew up out of life. It cut down evil strangling vines, like a slashing searing knife. It lit fires when fires were not, and burnt the mind of man, tempering leaden hearts to steel from the time the time began. It wept by the waters of Babylon, and when all men were alas, it squeaked in withering agony, and it hung bleeding from the cross. It died in Rome by lion and sword, and in defiant cruel array, when the deathly word was Spartacus along the Apian Way. It marched with what the tidalers pour, and frightened Lord and King, and it was emblazoned with their deathly stare as air a living thing. It smiled in holy innocence, before conquistators of old, so me contained when unaware of the deathly power of gold. It burst forth through pitiful Paris streets, and stormed the old Bastille, and marched upon the serpent's head, and crushed it beneath its heel. It died in blood on Buffalo's plains, and starved by moons of rain. Its heart was buried in wounded knee, but it will come to rise again. It screamed aloud by carry lakes, as it was knelt upon the ground, and it died in great defiance, as they coldly shot it down. It is found in every light of hope, it knows no bounds nor space, and it has risen in red and black and white, and is there in every race. It lies in the hearts of heroes dead, it screams in tyrant's eyes, it has reached the peaks of mountains high, it comes searing across the skies. It lights the dark of this prison cell, it thunders forth its might. It is the undauntable thought, my friend, the thought that says I'm right.