If all the stars were paper

and all the space was ink,

and if I had forever

the time for which to think;

then never would the stars suffice,

and níer would spread the ink,

to tell the story of my love

and what I came to drink.


And even if the words were there

to shed a little light

among the existential gloom

of those in troubled flight,

would that amount to giving

what is not mine to give,

or can the power of the word

encourage them to live ?


A little learning is a dangerous thing,

or so it has been said;

but if you do not give it now,

then you cannot when youíre dead !

And for what purpose then I ask

is freedom given for ?

The choice is mine,

at least for now,

to give them something more:

to tell them of from whence they came,

and to whither they return;

for the end is the beginning -

and so much there is to learn !


And never did the ancients

of that mystic thread through time,

describe the realm of paradise -


So Iíll make that project mine !



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