The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite. He bends you with his might his arrows go swiftly and far. The archer loves the arrow that flies,he loves the bow that is stable. The arrow of the archer weaves the threads to your heart as if,your beloved was the cloth. Fragment of spirit litter the paths of life, his soul cries out to them. The archer has the flame that burns therein, this he said in words. But much remained unsaid inside his heart. For himself he could not speak his secret. The archer takes another breath in the still of the air, another look cast backward, Only to be another murmur in the glade.