The disquieting song rings distantly.
The performance's end calls again.
Let us not delay, and once more fade.
Over again, this again.
Agony did wake me in the weary country.
Where I laid, in quiet sleep.
Upon my skull the pain had risen,
Though not as much as beforehand.
Falling in the sands of this sea,
I rip from the grains that did bury me,
And leave a piece behind.
Where the sands are heated to a frozen cold,
And the air is burning with ice-marked colors,
Distant mirages speak of a lying tale,
But I know my destination, this time, again.
These marks of burns and tears on my form,
Were they there before?
When did I...?
The approaching citadel of empty theatrics,
Still shines with monochrome iridescence.
And still, I must finish the song.
To weep to an audience of sand,
To dance with the piercing air,
Put to question nothing,
And let this music of tormented entertainment guide your steps.
And to wake, here, again.
Distasteful is the edge that cuts at this silk
That connects the I to all other things.
The wind that moves to steps I took
Will be the blade that relief me of my puppeteer.
Bow now, the performance is over.
Until I wake once more from the pale sands.
Fourfold imaginations