The heart is a heart of glass,
daily new colors fill it
but none can stain the spirit;
each passion is soon to pass.
each taste leaves a man thirsty;
for the taste of each new wine
is mingled with heavy brine
drawn from the river lethe.
both the smell of myrrh and musk
become hidden and withdrawn,
for the vibrancy of Dawn
must dissolve into the dusk.
and supple skin is a lie,
for there is no truth in youth;
ripe is the flesh of the fruit
when it is Rot, soon to die.
a recited libretto,
the bellow of the street hounds,
sparrows on funeral grounds,
each mingle as one echo.
God is The center; changeless,
if to him you draw nearer;
mirror reflecting mirror,
revealed is the name nameless:
I
Zothyrian Revisionist 