I was a highwayman. Along the coach roads I did ride With sword and pistol by my side Many a young maid lost her baubles to my trade Many a soldier shed his lifeblood on my blade The bastards hung me in the spring of twenty-five But I am still alive.
He - (Simón Bolívar) - was shaken by the overwhelming revelation that the headlong race between his misfortunes and his dreams was at that moment reaching the finishing line. The rest was darkness. "Damn it," He sighed. "How will I ever get out of this labyrinth!"
So what’s the labyrinth?
That’s the mystery isn’t it? Is the labyrinth living or dying? Which is he trying to escape - the world, or, the end of it?
