The greatest doors were built,
near the endless writhing lake.
Twenty three million roses wilt,
as earth beneath forests shake.
Through the thorn filled desert,
on plains where mortals pass.
Vines upon walls never convert,
those ramparts made of glass.
Giants and tyrants walk around,
that guard this precious door.
Terrible stomps on soft ground,
that none have viewed before.
Through the keyhole they say,
awaits passion in truest form.
Blessed womb that men betray,
hands that stay forever warm.
In clearest vision she confides,
her thoughts murmur sweet joy.
Entrapping men from all sides,
with extreme power to destroy.
The righteous have that key,
that separates this bolted steel.
Tears that soak corroded debris,
never understanding what is real.