.

Atop his high tower the weary guardian knows

That only the power of light thwarts eerie throes,

That the bright and warm fire, as Ariadne’s thread,

Guides the ships to the shore, keeping them all ahead

From Charon and his barque through all the thickest nights,

Through all the deepest fogs, as they brave the great sea;

A shadow on the wall, a puppet on a string.

He knows this, yet he doubts: oh would anyone see?

Would his absence be felt, hidden by the great lights?

A shadow on the wall, a puppet on a string.

How many moons have rocked the dreams he tries to keep

Concealed behind his heart? For the red-hot iron

Rising again each day burns the true number deep

In both his skin and soul: a thousand one aion.

A shadow on the wall, a puppet on a string.

And yet there he is still waiting for who to be,

Come what may, standing fast against the salty brine,

Eternal assailant of this lost, godless shrine;

No reward, no witness, only hope of what maybe.

A shadow on the wall, a puppet on a string.

.

And yet so close…