Before the wings and spring of words,
Were cradle-held in a cloud of sleep,
Soft footfalls to hear ourselves turning
And ever new dreams were lofty keys,

We could not see the frost branching
And winter never was, nor winds cold,
In our temple eyes, the sun crowning
Imbued visions, fine as woven gold,

Draped in silks so rare, spun spinning,
To hear the birds sing in ears blossom,
For the very first time, true beginnings
And the flower's colour never forgotten,

All is mourning now— song, sings singer,
To morn, wake, dream, dreams dreamer.