A thousand streets alike, weary and broken
I have traveled a thousand times more,
Creating a life empty of divine design,
But ripe with clouded uncertainty.
Now I see these streets, encrusted with gold,
And an auricomous aura enveloping dark secrets, dark streets.
I know it is only my mind, infected by
Her grace, a disease I beg to suffer
In exchange for never untying her golden thread
From the reticule of my shaded secret streets.
My legs, weary and broken by thousands of travels,
Could not even walk me to my grave
Without her brilliance showering me with golden dew
As fresh as the new mornings by her side.
Not ignorant of my thousand lives before,
But opening some second vision, some second mind,
To the thousand years to come.