standing upon the portal where my eyes have become weary, the cold windsfromthe south bring ghastly fragments of the forgotten land, where, once,the spirits stoodalong the desolate shore todisappear into the silenced murk, "some by the seven gated Thebes in theland of Kadmos
There, for these, the end ofdeath was misted about them", as my eyes slowly descend, the dusttranscends into my frailstructure, the wind, thecold wind breaks my complete silence, the portal for which I stand uponcollapses, no fear Ishall feel, transcendenceinto the peripheral, "and there they have their dwelling place andhearts free of sorrow, inthe islands of the blessed,by the deep swirling stream of the ocean", the hypnotised sound of
Boetian harps, created bythe force of the spirits,the faraway lands no longer seem so distant, nirvanaesque serenity asthe hills becomeunclouded, the spiritsembrace my soul, as I envision the neutral spectrum before me, the harpechoes and echoesand..... my wings takeme to the bewilderment
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