We have come to our real work,
Discovering the faint footsteps of angels
In the dust of forgotten roads.
And that when we no longer know which way to go,
The nightbirds startle from shadow,
Leading us through labyrinths of stars.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
It takes the twisted vine, the broken clock,
To unveil truths hidden in the corners of rooms.
The impeded stream is the one that sings,
Fumbling over stones in its path,
Composing melodies for the lost.