He whom existence itself has marked
Walks onwards...
Below decrepid bones a path
A narrow alley below oaken skies
Which leave but few gaps
For higher lights to pass.
His obscure forest of time
A command:
Cross!
Or crush yourself...
He whom existence itself has marked
With pirecing irons of twisted irrationality
Struggles through.
A narrow path nestling between thorns
Rampant bushes, wild and intransparent
Which appear to keep ahold of him
To seize the irrational king
Now victim, now prey
To reaching arms, summoned by himself
A passage, so narrow, so unsafe
Leaves little space to evade
These claws
Over constant periods of time
Annual steps beyond his path of sanity
Have not remained annual
As he discovered his ability
To stumble over the same vicious rocks
Which had encountered a million times before
Dodging these rocks
Will force him into all eternity
To bow,
To the sprouting green endless
Once seeds he himself had sown...
