lilting on the tongues, casting before the eyes.
A tree with no roots hangs from the steel beamed sky,
it will never grow, but to a heaven ascend.
I stand, blocked exact and know,
this glory that is the unknown,
who first crosses the threshold into night's day,
and day's eternity.
I know my steps, and hover,
to look down and drink the attention,
that laps in waves upon the beach of eternity.
The poets of the ancient stage,
the mandarins of golden age,
collect and look down at this
the child of two worlds collision,
now perched on this,
the fulcrum of life,
with which we move stone hearts to tears.