Some requiem must be composed,
For spirits still weighted to this world.

A man makes love to sorrow...
When the sacred jaws of restlessness,
Bring him only burden.
When his truths are moths in mist,

They whisper: "oh apotheosis! oh holy bulb of light!"
He learns that it is his shadow,
Not just darkness that gives form to the night.

But we will put some definition to freedom, to the divine, our throats, our strings all wild in vibration, and with that sound we will bring the air to flames.