Winds flow overhead
While the sun dies in the distance,
And though the clock is stilled
It speaks only of silence.

After the horizon's last glare,
When the dimness expands
Its cold, brown borders
Between spreading cloud
And roaming mountainhead,
Between the slipping of moments
Overlapping and merging,
There is a last chance
To flee the self
And fill the self
With the beginning of time.

Through despairing death
And fear of cold creeping
Arises the spark that awakens
Dusk-claimed cities,
They who thrust their jewels
Of light burning upon hillsides
While afar off chants the shaman,
Renouncing each ignorance,
Opening all unseen eyes
To gaze forth into the last,
To walk the clouds and mountains
Of time's shorn borders.

When the eyes are open
And absorbing the last light
The spirit will quicken
To find itself unbound,
Ready to meet the failing sun
As it slips mortal grasp,
Knowing that in the dim realm
Lies the path that reveals
How to be truly alive.

In this land, time reigns
Not by minutes, but moments
Which exist only and always
In the pervasive present.