It shimmers, and you watch it, softly
in the sunlight. At first like this, then,
after, like that: here and here you see specks
of gold, all shining, all triumphant, all
bitter.

As when your shoulders turn limp,
it's dragging you down with what
warmth it has. You fool Regulus,
this was what I told of; Regulus,
what a deceiver you where. But who's left
to deceive now?

There is black and there is white,
is in-betweens. If offered as by
a hand, not like a trap but like a gift,
would you see it? It’s falling,
assigned here.

If you opened your eyes, each to you
as wings to birds, compass to sailers,
a rowing toward a clearing to which you still
reach for, hesitantly, how could you
with a thousand centuries of tradition clouding them?
There's a world in that clearing: there's a
different world. Would you open, make clearer
your eyes?