The golden panache of the sun
A moment, hark,
On high, still rapture of one Little Lark .

The sun swarms in gold gold,
The fine, clank, hark,
Of  sheep's bell-in the gold
Hear sound of lark.

The clouds scud past unheard
On golden ground,
They speak not one word,
From gold mouths no sound.

Longing is the core of mystery.
Longing itself brings the core.
The only rule is, suffer the pain.

Your desire must be disciplined.
And what you want to happen,
In time, sacrificed.