It is true, its walls are heftier than it feels.
Its map appears when good self unreels
Away from the cosmos,
Than Einstein formula could reach.
Lighted up by Him who made it so.

Its track thereof, on the path of good deeds.
Gold-slabbed roads starring the carpeted ground
And crystal streams snaking by healing trees.
The one who had gone before
He was nailed before He spoke.

Lover of strange books,
Spoke thus in nasal flow:
Tell me you babbler zee
Where does this lie lie bee?
Its geography and its scape?

And the wise sayer spoke thus:
Every night the eye’s shuttles are drawn
For the mind to practice its end.
Suddenly, the distance between seconds,
He works in York and parades in Paris.

When the nights are dark and thick,
He knocks the memory still.
By moving through the blackened holes
To unminuted meetings
Returning in the mornings
To sit by the sanctuary in hope.

That “you” in you knows his path
And by riddles describe his home.
When he is finally free,
He shall tell you where it is.
But this greasy ear may not bid it well
To hear it in this earthly realm.