In the dimly lit corners of the world
Where beg for sanctuary those who still
Take delight in the verses from dead poets,
Where the dams of imagination still hold back
The waters that stultify the minds,
Where there are still weightless spirits
That tossed the ballast of the flickering screens,
Where little alchemists still possess the Secret
And keep in their well-guarded retorts
The seed wherefrom the Universes spring,
There you will find my house, floating, rootless,
A silent zeppelin flying above the plains
Of a looking-glass Iceland, decked with a myriad
Dazzling mirrors of motionless quartz water,
Where all drunken flyers celebrate
The marriage of the head-butting rams,
Of the scalding ice and the freezing fire.
There I pledge allegiance to a force
Stronger than the lies of the empires.
There I push the soma of frivolity
(Forced down the throats of the offspring of the world)
Away from my mouth, and drink of ancient water,
Pouring out from the jug held by a minor daemon.
There I let the wind of Dharma
Chart the course of mi destiny.
There I am the adept of pure Action
Forgoing the notion of desiring any outcome,
Finally detached from the craving of the footprint,
From the need to stamp signature and idea,
Finally Perseus, loping off the head of the Gorgon
That begets the flightless Pegasus of Anticipation.