standing upon the portal where my eyes have become weary, the cold winds

from

the south bring ghastly fragments of the forgotten land, where, once,

the spirits stood



along the desolate shore to

disappear into the silenced murk, "some by the seven gated Thebes in the

land of Kadmos



There, for these, the end of

death was misted about them", as my eyes slowly descend, the dust

transcends into my frail



structure, the wind, the

cold wind breaks my complete silence, the portal for which I stand upon

collapses, no fear I



shall feel, transcendence

into the peripheral, "and there they have their dwelling place and

hearts free of sorrow, in



the islands of the blessed,

by the deep swirling stream of the ocean", the hypnotised sound of

Boetian harps, created by



the force of the spirits,

the faraway lands no longer seem so distant, nirvanaesque serenity as

the hills become



unclouded, the spirits

embrace my soul, as I envision the neutral spectrum before me, the harp

echoes and echoes



and..... my wings take

me to the bewilderment