Under the October sun,
something watches, something sees.
There are things that are not done.
A white moon between two yellow trees
answers, by its presence
I am informed, a birth within me,
a secret, a sacrament. A twilight phosphorescence
reads out my name, it says nothing is free,
that I am liable to become, an invisible,
that these worlds are in exchange.
A fusion, the unseen and the visible,
from a perfection rises. It is we, we who never change.
It is we who break these maxims,
these stipulations from an uncorrupt oblivion.
It is we, the sons of autumns,
who breathe this dream of honey, this air of cinnamon.
This formality of light
has always shone, has always been
These hearts of copper, these minds of brass, these souls in flight,
dissolutions seeped unseen.
And the moment love endures
is the moment we disperse,
through the prisms of the tangible, the clearness that obscures,
truths we must rehearse.