The Book, 2003

The shadow of the first man,
floats before us on the floor.
Like a dead man in the summer wind,
who in winter waves no more.

Fear in the end we all might fall,
into the slender hands of man—
and forever, from up under,
grasp at outstretched angel hands.

Have you seen the seven skies—
self-reflecting mirrored glass?
Who was walking on the first day,
when Hera’s dress went past?

Who was walking on the first day,
when the lizard’s started crawling?
Did they in the dark of night,
see rebel angels falling?

What thought the insects of the storm,
when the lightning lit the sky—
and revealed the stars above them,
as fireflies lolling by?

Forever might the shadow,
of that apple cloud our way;
as in the past our paradise,
was with one bite thrown away.

Did they see conductor’s hands,
when he came to plant the seed?
With water brought,
the sapling wrought,
the transmigration tree.

Or like frightened shadows,
as the first snow fell to Earth—
as nothingness then seeded being,
and then died giving birth.

As first went into newborn wood,
went all the things which crept;
happy on the seventh day,
our tired Master slept.

Who first walked in newborn woods,
of trees and tulips too?
Walking soft through rustling leaves,
plant and phantom born anew.

Forever might the screaming ghost,
of past echoes cloud my eyes;
where walked the newborn hollow men,
when came the angel cries?

Bits of sky befell the first rain,
and downward traveled fast;
like tiny bits of golden pieces,
white heaven’s shattered glass.

What thought the lizards of the first storm,
when the lightning lit the sky?
And the stars like sleeping fireflies,
above them drifted by?

When the first leaf in the meadow,
coupled with the lonely rain;
the human being first arose,
when the image of the beast was slain.

Who under nighttime’s blanket,
mourned the death of Sol?
The shadows in the lonely darkness,
sat confused and called.

Still hidden were those phantom hands,
when thunder shook the clouds;
The Gods above without a man,
are unheard screaming sounds.

He without the first man,
was an unheard scream out in the night.
And he within the first storm sent,
singing angels down in flight.

Who saw Saturn’s Titan moon—
amidst the halo made of sand?
Who saw the singing stereo sun—
when she held out her hand?

Who hasn’t on our mother Earth,
since time begun,
felt lost?
Many pebbles, before us,
have by the shore been tossed.

Above new birds have fluttered,
and songs of morn begun.
No prophet,
in our current life,
has ever dared to come.

Alles ist diese shrieb,
sing those when past the grave;
Gott in seinem sthul alleine!
With the bones of other men,
our obscured pathway paved.
Horen sie wie der teuful!
This is their sing along song.
Aus Ausdehnungen hand!
And we just play along.

Where went the man who brought—
God’s voice from the mountain?
He, like all the ones before him—
had tapped the golden fountain.

Now long forgotten, that old man,
from the mountains carried down,
a tablet which split, when lightning hit,
and descended from the clouds.

By the burning bush,
that with frightful fingers—
made of lightning wrote on stone;
And the bearded man,
to whom it spoke,
walks golden shores alone.

And so the angels sing.
Veni, veni, oh! Emmanuel!
Louder as they sing and yell:
Captivum—solve Israel!
This they say upon the day:
Dies Irae! Dies illa!
And in their last years seem to say:
Solvet saeclum in favilla!
We sing along and watching sway:
Teste David cum Sibylla!
Dies Irae! Dies illa!
Solvet saeclum in favilla!

Did the first man on two feet,
with consciousness arise—
within his mind did he know that,
he with all else dies?

Of our sun what thought the first men,
as they from under glanced?
On the walls of new-formed caves,
shadows of the first men danced.

Sometimes from an empty gate,
the wind of never flows so red—
as passing lightning slithers over,
more formless up-turned heads.

How first-hand knew the formless thunder—
above new Earth to strike?
Over the creeping silent ones,
was flung a field of night.

Flowing from an empty gate,
the first wind of forever blew so red;
and wrote on the first day,
what on the last day will be read.

The spinning songs of life,
might often miss a key;
we are bound and held in chains,
and led like slaves by destiny.

We form from out of sight,
pass into life to cross a sea of years.
From outside unborn, through life and storm,
the other side appears.

From the empty gate of never,
first blew the new winds of forever.
Time unfurled like a golden string,
as the oceans flowed together.

Without man the Gods above are but a falling tree,
out in the woods that no one hears;
without the men who dance around,
his lonely voice echoes the years.

A shout out in the woods perhaps,
a whisper in the night.
Those who walk the smoke-lined streets,
may cry out in delight.

Who beside a midnight lamp,
spent night’s long hours crying—
in confusion on the following day,
uttered prayers for the dying?

Perhaps alone they first looked up,
with formless wonders in their view.
As the first time in the night,
the breeze from nowhere blew.

How hid the silent first day,
behind the curtain made of night—
before the hands above,
first sent the silver stars to flight?

Forever we can say and speak,
of things we do not know—
preaching of a place we’ve yet to see,
to those who’ll never go.

Still singing of forever’s wind,
we in the night might blow—
up like dust from in the street,
and go where shadows go.

Still we remain but beggars,
alone who beckon night;
and sing the song of our ancestors,
who set the first flame of time alight.

From shroud-like silver playing hands,
the first piano sang the storm.
As all below was still yet made,
and the infant chaos had no form.

Had they precognition,
of robot shadows on the wall—
perhaps within this future echo,
we could avert the fall.

So confused were all who walked along,
in confusion created hell;
likewise followed good and evil,
so they could in heaven dwell.

Mankind then created rules,
to enter into light.
And shortly after told God himself,
how he divided night.

All our lonely past still reads,
the book we cannot change;
foreign tongues of beast and man,
with words our wars remain.

Quickly fled on hollow heels went the first man,
and soon will follow you,
as quickly out as in we went,
to where the winds that from forever blew.

The first then quickly turned to two,
and by itself divided;
as settled in the new midnight,
the light of day subsided.

And on our life stills rolls and rolls,
like a story we can’t out-cross—
then when the ending comes,
it’s finished,
and the book is lost.

The swift wind of forever,
may again in twilight never,
so quickly as it ever flows now blue—
forever out as in it came,
with a floral paradise anew.

Out life is but a book,
and with no word can we replace,
before we in our truthful solitude,
take off the public face.

Without the Gods, then, what is man—
a page at the end of an improvised plan?
No solution and no purpose;
divide and multiply and plod.
Silence is the voice of God.

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