Long ago, when the world unfolded,
As Almighty God would drop His face,
With the word the burning sun was halted
And the cities would be laid to waste.
And the eagle would be stopped from flying,
And the stars clung to the moon in fright,
If abruptly, like a scarlet fire,
The word drifted in the heavens' heights.
But on earth the numbers were created,
Like the cattle yoked and confined,
For the numbers always clearly stated
Every shade of meaning they defined.
And they gray-haired patriarch, contented
To have settled good and evil for himself,
When with the sound's mystery presented,
In the sand drew numbers with his staff.
But we have lost within the dark oblivion
The lucid truth amidst our earthly lot,
For in the Gospel, that by John was given,
It was stated that the Word was God.
And the word has now been inserted
In the confines of the worldly shell,
And like dead bees within a hive deserted,
Lifeless words give off a foul smell.
The Gardens of my Soul is always patterned,
In it the winds so fresh and silence-full,
In it the golden sand and ebon marble,
In it the deep of the transparent pools.
The plants up there extraordinary like dreams,
Like waters, by sun rising, birds all pink,
And - who will understand a hint of ancient screens
There is a girl in garland like a great priestess.
The eyes is like a glow of clear grey steel,
And graceful forehead, white like eastern lilies,
The lips was never kissed and never will
And never spoke with anyone...
Her cheeks looks like a pinky pearls of south,
The treasure of unreal fantasies,
Her hands, which never touched by a stranger,
Will interlace in prayerful ecstasy.
And by her feets there sits two ebon panthers
With tide like metal on their smoothy fur.
Take wing from rose beside mysterious caves,
Her pink flamingo drowning in azure.
I don't look on the World of running lines,
My dreams, they only eternal of humble.
Let's up sirocco throw out in desert,
The Gardens of my Soul always patterned.