Our joyous friend who mocks us not,
but shrouds us with each doubt
that we have gathered lovingly, and
now confront with helpless resignation--
it is a paradox that blesses
with a truth unwelcome;
every answer flys from us,
condemned by virtue of its birth.
It is vanity that feeds us,
sets the winnowing blade yet finer still.
Thought no longer is our refuge;
Power, our only quest.
We are the keepers of the day...wait...
The mist upon the mountain stirs a moment.
There is the pinnacle!
stark, alone, silent ever...
Let it go.