With old eyes open, are we set free,
Is all a glimpse, of simple prophecy,                                                                      
Or tall, landed fable to fly children,
And bookend of time we borrow,
But lent pergatory of sole dream?
How the birds righty commend
The fine, happy sorrows of day,
How deepest ocean swoons
By alighted traces of moon,
How crisp unbridled beauty
Beams into youths of a girl,
How the salt blood streams
As golden sun swells ocean,
How the simple, cut mercies
In a flower are showcased,
How the stars, arc the sky,
Of stellar eyes embrace,
This then is miracle,
A flame to earth.