the story always ends at the carfax,
   lost in translation, somewhere in the barathrum of the world
 like dragon tongues, blundering in the darkness
waiting for purity to light them aflame once more;
             diaglyphs lay scattered on my chamber floor,
           scented with the oils of lilies and mountain waters
   depicting the emergence of all life, scrawled in gold and jewels –
          patrons always seemed to discard the thought of nature
and her intimate beauty that surrounds us every day:
    what need is there for gold when the rosy light of the sun
      soaks the plains more thoroughly than the monsoon rains,
                and what use for jewels is there if we have stars,
    scintillating and luminous in their navy cradle of velvet,
       selcouth but always present in the eyes of those
           who can lay claim to the ambitious ideas of the universe.
  one day, we will open our eyes as a whole,
                        and see that the gods never abandoned us –
                               they were right here before us all along.