From the deepness of a den,
A lonely, young man counts to ten;
He has lost all thought of zen,
As nature's taken arms to men.
From the dark side of the moon,
The living, chat and pray that soon,
Humankind will be immune,
From every single evil they incur.
As the limits press so hard,
Against the nature we have charred,
The lion crawls out from his cave,
To find the world engulfed in wave.
The meaning life never did find,
The peoples heads, their thoughts unwind,
To thoughts of mankind's anarchy,
Not till now were we so free.
The folding stars as vision fades,
Victim to the distant blades,
Of what we were to blind to see,
From I to you, then me to we.
No thoughts of rescue flood our mind,
As we have nothing but our kind;
As independent fallacy,
Floods our mind for us to see,
The blinding, ambient trance.
The rickshaws that we once did ride,
Have flowed right back to natures tide,
As distance overwhelms our thoughts,
Untying all those ancient knots.
The animation that we are,
Subject to causes near and far,
Hear nothing but the syllables beat,
As distance robs us of our heat.
The spec of dust that we came from,
It meant more to all, than simply some.
The cycle of both night and day,
It was artificial, in a way.
The balance we did once enjoy,
Was nothing more than natures toy,
As former thinking filters out,
What we were once all about.
From the darkness of a den,
A lonely, young man counts to ten;
He has lost all thoughts of chance.
As he surrenders to the trance.
In his mind he dreams the past,
Something that wasn't built to last;
Of men who grasp a ladies waist,
Unaware the final taste,
Of what was once, and always is,
Is slipping from those hands of his.
Or maybe it is ours to say,
It was never his in any way,
And the fool hath think that this is wrong,
Is one who's fooled truth so long.
From the deepness of a den,
A lonely, young man counts to ten.
He has found his final zen.
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