You sat by the windowsill,
in closed doors and a hollow room.
Those wounds seem deep,
out of broken stills and useless boons.

You're a byproduct of loneliness
Where happiness lays its head
And the grips of idleness
Made you slumber instead.

Together—I felt pain,

Alone—you felt joy.

Inward—heart's in flame,

Outward—the mind went lame.

And so—

Yesterday—she promised

Today—he lied.

Near—we idled by,

Afar—they said goodbye.

On my way to a path

I was met by a hermit

Accompanied by its music which

Unlike a sculpture nor a painting,

With their mimicking stagnation,

The music flowed through time.

The hermit then asked,

'What is the joy of silence?'

With the cold of that ember evening

I dared not to answer

For in silence, the truth there dwells.

'An admirable integrity!'

The hermit jovially exclaimed

'For the path of nothingness,

after all is reserved for the Will,

the Will to beauty, the Will to be.'

Without a moment to ponder

I thereby entered the void

As the Hermit's music

Went into a glistening crescendo

The void joined along an innuendo

It is fact that with a baby's cry

Along comes with it a signal of life

The void became a myth and a lie

Of the world before I came to be

When I saw my mother's eyes.