One thing does not exist – oblivion.
And God, who saves the metal, saves the slag,
Encoding in prophetic memory
All those moons which will be, and which have been.
All is already there. Reflections stack'd
In scores between two twilights of the day,
By you, your face in mirrors, giving way
To those it will continue to refract.
And all is part of crystal so diverse,
One of this memory, this universe,
Its arduous black hallways have no cease;
Its doors will close just after you, your stride,
That you may from the sunset's other side,
Behold the Archetypes and Splendors' fleece.