It is true, its walls are heftier than I feel.
Its map appears when good self disappears
Away from the cosmos,
Than Einstein’s 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
was nailed before He could speak.
Lover of strange books,
Spoke thus in nasal flow:
'Tell me you babbler boy
Where does this lie lie,
Its geography and its scape?'
And the wise sayer spoke thus:
'Every night the eye’s shuttles are drawn short
For the mind to practice its end.
Then, 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 black holes
To unminuted meetings,
Returning in the mornings
To sit by sanctuary’s 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 be.
But this earthy ear may not be
To hear it in this realm.
