In azure and cream the days bleed to gray.
Life bursts upon life: grace splashes in wood,
Jewels tremble in brine, shadows embark on the wind.
We are woven in time:
As we harvest and sow, so we slumber and rise;
Night begets day as the sleeper dreams his eyes:
The light is on, the light is off.
It is the great dissolution that gives us mountains,
The sweet swindle of hope that makes magic almost tangible.
Man posits in fragments: now drunk with indignation,
Now numb with grief and bile, he mulls over ashes,
Dabbles in phantoms, transmogrifies truths:
The light is on, the light is off.
His is a legacy of fire.
He is raptor, he is despot, he is hero nonetheless,
And one day he will master his blood.
Somehow this scoundrel, this seer,
This passionate beast, who scraped his way from stone to steel,
Will bear his pain with courage, find his peace in forgiveness,
And rear his young with imagination:
The light is on.
