The heart, not knowing the end of desire,
wanders in a winding way;
the mind, a scarred warrior,
sits and weeps by the river of memories.

When wonder rushes a new terrain,
there is fitful balking at an open gate —
here is another leave taking
with no reminder that life is one.

Fate is unwavering —
we become like the thing we love.
Something that is not sentimental,
that is not worn upon the sleeve,
is held deep within the pocket.

Some floors collapse, others remain.
Already forms are sinking, the spirit
burns through the flesh;
the children of the mystery
have etched upon their caves
semblance and shadow of lost dreams.