I remember

A cradle made of the midnight sky
I’ll give to my wasteland where shadows lie.
The branches of oak will touch me blind
In the silent grove that we left behind.
The crunch of the gravel, a lonely sound,
The roots of my memory deep in the ground.
I walk down this road, a lover possessed,
By the scarlet spring in my aching chest.

In the lush green world, in the heavy dew,
The sparks of the ages are shining through.
My thoughts flow like seeds through the keyhole's light,
Like a miracle pulse in the veins of the night.

I remember my summer, so golden and bright,
The moon in the evening’s bewildering light.
Under the sky we burned like a sun,
Dreaming of stars when the world was done!
We’re turning grey like the ancient Moon,
Lost in the ritual, fading too soon!
We are but sparks in the sacred fire,
Burning away on the funeral pyre!

Burning out in a cubic dance,
Where matter is a cage, a hypnotic trance.
I’ll leave until every gloss is dry,
Under the weight of a cold, grey sky.
The favorite nerve — the brain, the lead —
Is drying out in this human head.
The door is not open, the door is not closed,
Between the spirit and the dying rose.

Stone crystal...
Velvet moss...
Every nerve...
Is a bitter loss.
I’ll return to the sound of the drumming rain,
To wash the glass and to numb the pain.
A final visit, a ghost on the street,
In every leaf... our shadows will meet.

We’re turning grey like the ancient Moon!
Lost in the ritual, fading too soon!
We are but sparks in the sacred fire,
Burning away on the funeral pyre!