by
David Shipton
In an occurrence of the faith of trust, the flower is enjoyed To an ecstasy of rational feeling, in the river of time a hopeful sign Shell, to this is conflict, to the skin of indulgence, to a wish In the misted hope of heaven, of it offering of such With this the experience, I found the prize, the beginning.
To the places of most desire, to times, to memories unborn. In this a single note in the time-thing, in the fabric of history This a sound heard by tolerant angels and vixen devils A word, a phrase and then actions, of the true realm Only in the silence of night do thay question again.
Tell of the realm of the place he would live, ever and to the last day. Yeld to the place, to the wanting inside. Offer to her the one thing, the only thing To her the symbol, the god-tool, the bearer. With this the action, is word, the word is made flesh, to this we rejoice.