Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face.
Withdraw; thy myrrh-laden hands ascended.
And stars to fill my dreams, and yea, eyes bright
Thou madest real thy straining thought.

Oh, to laugh aloud. Dancing as we fought
The crowd. Scald mine penitent, wand’ring hands.
Idly they mock thy legacy, old king.
Thou pioneer, thy thick, heady pulse die.

And as it was, then again it will be.
Wisdom’s chalice runneth full of thy grace.
Though the course may change sometimes, I am there.
When mountains crumble to the sea, I stand.

My Shangri-La beneath the summer moon,
I will return again. The notes remain.