The Well of Illusion

You fell into the well of illusion
In seeking to quench the thirst of your spirit,
But never did you expect to swallow flames
Or become a flame yourself.

Your ashes you threw into the four winds,
For you wanted to become wind.
But never did you expect to lose yourself so easily,
A tempest lost in its own madness.

A wanderer amongst tombs and deserts,
You now speak in riddles and ghosts,
Preaching what you have once forgotten,
Preaching what you yourself once had.

In the memory of your spirit you recall
The happiness of a star and bright eternity,
Now shadowed by your own eclipse
And the tears of too much knowledge.

And having wept the tears of the spirit
You cry, "Naked I left that star in whom I was born,
"Naked do I wander among streets and ghosts.
"For little is there of spirit here, now that I am spirit."

With new funeral stones you surround yourself,
Deaf to lamentations as to whispers.
Only with chisel and hammer do you dare
To pave the way to new resurrections.

For in the expectation of great dawns
You carve out your ivory stone of happiness.
"This is the pillar to my new god," you say.
"For once he was dead, and now he is born."