yalda baoth

begin, nay, begat

quicken thee t’ward the very lip of  this world

n’run thy tongue 

holding care nare to wake

the many here who wish to dream still the long nights’ passion

ne’r a fie hath fallen such as this sleep bestow’d upon souls scatter’d to the winds

for men’s eyes hath been closed to thee

sweet mystery

the beating in man’s breast deafens thy song

his very blood betrays him in boiling

put down these toys, away with the pieces

we are done here