A thousand eyes from the mist appear
From cold blue wreaths inside a mountain stream
To descend on the plains of sacrifice below
Merging moving tree tops, with ash blown fields
That has no hoe or plow or chimney top/stove;
Just a green torn carpet, swaying tiredly
In silent symphony, with the evening breeze.
A thousand eyes meet mine, mine alone
Past, marching on to a present
Fading in the shadow of sunsets dream
Space, just an edge beyond earth
History, a phantom’s march
Music, octaves of regret
Rising at the fountains of forgotten youth.
A thousand eyes and mine too
Searching for all the lost minds
That have poured their hopes
Into the stars, the sleepless eyes
Seeing, what must have passed below unsung;
Sorrow, a pale shadow mentored by the moon.
A thousand eyes and mine too, searching
The remains of what are but thoughts
Of men familiar with the mystic quest
The journey through the self, searching for the soul
Of humanity, walking slowly, backwards
In the reflections swept by the riverside wind.