Curious you are, so called immortal
being. It is written in truth
that you move with ease between the
bounds of age and youth, primordial.
Odd are you. No eyes to view your fortune.
No soul which to hearken and wax
to surely stack the favor of odds with God.
How then through a door like that of Portunes'?
A wound you are to those who know your name.
For all else there is death written;
while you're not smitten, or in the least pleased
with the Clock's body given to you tamed.