The waters where we shimmer are wrapped in secrets kept so cold,
The mirrors where we meet, reflecting entry points of old;
From fortresses of fancy we peer into the traveller’s gaze,
From the shadows of our memory we leap into another phase;
As from the furthest shores of our homeland
We clutch the secret of our bone hand;
Descending down the spirals of an infinite identity,
Down the echoed footfalls of our staircase personality.
Our pilgrimage on roads of musk paves the dust of ancient dreams,
That beckons our enigma to the task, and disintegrates what we have been,
In phantasmagoric fingers, which we dare not ask to see,
We are drawn into the sapling of the sleepless willow tree;
Caressing an eternal question, as a fever coursing through the mind;
If only our insignia is to be a phoenix for the blind.
A ghost in lantern guise dispels the burden of our wages,
Promising with solar light to heal the horoscope of ages;
As camels trace our faceless signs back through the desert sands,
Into the lands of origins, where the morning star does reprimand
The temples of our treason, erected in a prison land;
Salamander skins are shed amongst its multi-coloured season,
If only to revolve and share beyond its face of reason,
A talisman of constant evolution,
Resolving rivers of eventual expulsion,
To their source of absolute and final fusion;
The odour of another solar order, permeates the butterfly,
That slumbers in its nameless embryo,
Before its wings had even sought to sigh;
The centre of all cosmic things
Ripples through concentric rings,
As ethereal beginnings flood
The shadows of our being.
Before, before, before, we even saw the door,
And left our features on the shore.