Chapter 1
Whose is this scent that in the breeze doth gleam?
To whom this naked note, a sad and unknown dream?
Perchance, within this exact and fleeting hour,
Belongs to the somber night and silvered sphere of power?
Does it pour down upon my frail and mortal state,
This multitude of stars with just and measured weight?
Yet, I can grasp the meaning of it all, so profound,
And I am not alone upon this path without a sound.
But nay, the wanderer knows it not, in vain,
A vulgar man who roams your flesh like phantom rain...
What does it mean to touch a rose up in the height,
Beside a deep abyss where never rules the night?
But nay, my Angel, leave the subtle metal cold,
Touch not the flame unless it bears our kindred mold.
Guard me my hands, my hands, I pray and cry,
For that upcoming day, the day for which I sigh.
(On that bright morn when naught shall be delayed)
And this is but a drop of blood, a path decayed,
A crimson drop enclosed upon my brow so pale,
Since I have known the scent of heaven through this earthly veil.
For Thee, and Thee alone, through horror and the haze,
The gloom shall turn to light in divine and splendid blaze.
