His soul called upon him to go astray
And there learned to love and bear empathy
Therefore in that intention he pursued his way
The way of art, the road of dreams, the beauty of poetry

It will be there that he shall meet me soon
As I will walk with him until the path is almost gone
And pluck the silver apples of the moon
And the golden apples of the sun

And all I heard was time's soliloquy
That truce of answers yet the will to fight
An act of echoes, scene of enmity

All time is, is a stage for history
So, rest soul, in the knowledge that all is right
And all I heard was time's soliloquy

A player dressed in flowers came to me
In a golden splendour with rays of  light
An act of echoes, scene of enmity

Hence second came, costumed abundantly,
The gaudy herald of the stagely night
And all I heard was time's soliloquy

An actor in white attire blinded me
With eyes so dark that they would shame the light
An act of echoes, scene of enmity

Life flows where it can't go, till it be free
And bloomed at the play's end, ne'er seen so bright
And all I heard was time's soliloquy
An act of echoes, scene of enmity

An illusion had sprung out of a well
And from the very same we all quench our thirst
In years it has already made many dwell
And I, in chasing this illusion, will not have been the first

It was blinding in all the light I didn't see
Until I learned how misfortune had treated me right
That illusion had been cloaked by invisibility
And vanished when I returned to sight

I taught the weeping willow how to cry
To see in himself that he felt forsaken
And seeing sadness, I felt the sympathy to try
And reached my hand, although it be not taken

Rooted in a ground of incomprehension
That deprived him of a willows vivacity
And darkened his brightest heaven of invention
And emptiness became his daily  melody

As for his loneliness  he took my hand
And as for comfort, I gave him mine
And placed his roots again on fertile land
I taught the weeping willow how tears can entertwine

I wanted to bring order to the archive in my head
There I found a paper gravely wrinkled
Forgotten and unread

Long have I denied and altered its appearance
And kept it orderly away from sincere reality
But the unread became known with all its clearance
When the world on the paper opened up in front of me

And the blinding light that paper carried out
Struck me with indefinable surreality
A world that was neither glorious nor proud
But still a part of the archive inside of me