A shaft of light, an eagle's wing
A mountain top, a signet ring
A crucifix, the axe's swing
These prosaic things will be gone in the wink of an eye
With his voice falling short in the silence
With his sight ever growing more dim
With his senses now tuned to the infinite
What place has envy in him?
What a waste of life observation is
If unaccompanied by any inner reflection or change
If the way of life is mysterious
Then the ways of Man are even more strange
With a whole range of feeling inside us
We perceive but do not comprehend
Like children with games full of magic
Who toy with themselves to the end
Toy with themselves to the end
So many things pa** before him
And in his fear he wishes he could hold them all close
Even though his grasp is clumsy
And there is nothing here he really knows
In sublimely indifferent ignorance
Now aware of the world he might miss
His sight stretches out like a hand in the night
And is severed at the wrist
So many thoughts come towards him
So many dreams now as he slides on that steepest descent
Into ultimate darkness
So many tales, and all that they meant
In sublimely indifferent eloquence
Now aware of the world that he holds
His sight which has blinded him all his life
Is excised as the stories are told
And the stories are told