Our own secrets begin ... aburbe condita
When it breathes history in a conscious
Possession of wisdom ... then again
It ignores and deceives ... ad aperturam ad finem
Too proud to listen in a repetitive flux
Of looped half conscious pilots ... then again
The ancients with sun centred pyramids of balanced souls
Ad majorem dei gloriam ... as they contact us through
Dreams of intertwined confines of illusions ... then again
Fragmented moments of entrapped wonder ... ad nauseam
Caught between reflected needs and useless games ... then again
All the combined symbols ... on the high priest's robes
All Greek myths and plaques of adornment ... ad valorem amor patriae
Then again ...
At the gate of infinity ... anno aetatis suae
Our psyche is colonized by the West in posture
Feeding an unbalanced hue to the pigs
Of a laboured stance ... then again
Take the Seven of a confused ideology ... anno urbis conditae
And Two of a sea paster's flight and then force feed
Five thousand of the next generation of American-Haters ... then again
Annus mirabilis ... across the country of the bearded giant
Oranges and crocodiles mate with an equal laugh
As a Spanish cut Moustache in a taller light screams for fairness ... then again
Peace Park ... cacoethes loquendi ... they cry competing with a
Sickly child on a rusty swing as his hands cross his chest
With the burden of the world on his bent back ... then again
You all do not amount to a song ... caveat lector casus belli
In your private winter of solitude
Molten gold will not save you nor the yellow of the sky ... then again
Searching for certainty is the new language ... beatae memoriae
Of choice as the night is filled with locked doors and damned
Red curtains ... then again
Two films on the one screen ... de profundis quietem
With a multitude of sub-titled mysterious in the smallest detail
That of a watchmaker's harmony
In his hands that are memory ... then again
We who collect ocean gems among the driftwood and weed
Ipso facto in vino veritas ... for us TIME is whispering
From another world from curved sea shells
In the collected memory of waves on blue windowsills
End
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