I live this existence of shadows, contented;
A perpetual winter claims me it's slave.
Searching the centuries for the art of life,
While the silver sun's centred on December's grave.

Under a mosaic of harmonious blue
Blows the breath of eternity in which Time reposes.
The path of truth lying with habitual motion
Through the rhythm of light that Creation composes.

As the enlightened soul finds cause for celebration
In visions of desolation carved out of the light;
So the tormented seeks freedom from the burden of sin -
His sorrow finds shelter under the canopy of night.

To the ends of the earth shall I follow the dust
On a journey to end at Heaven's echoing gate.
Dare I predict such an end to the tale? -
Sometimes even the prophets in expectation must wait.