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A pale light hangs past the Moon's dim glow,
For he who aspires towards everything only grasps nothing,
And with death only shattered seeds will sow,
Into the mourning and past humanity's mediocrity frothing,
Hanging upon a balance of blades,
Watching an acrobat walk the Devil's curtsy,
A hand defines the line of all words,
And the boundary of thought closes the chasm,
Standing alone in the brooding morning,
The light rises upon a sullen, distraught face,
The Moon yet hangs on the drifting of clouds,
The night still perpetual in the spirit of the day,
The wind calls with a bitter chill,
And the mountain groans with the voice of giants,
How long the path to evermore,
To be through the worst of the void's cruel spell,
To be fathered by the forsaken,
Is to be cradled by the forgotten,
And when he himself sees this forth,
The despair shall come full circle,
A carving in wood half finished now,
For the craft has been done many times before,
Time passed upon barren ventures,
And always moved on before mastery comes way,
Attempts in vain to change the same,
Far more lessons never learned from years long aged,
To let go the grip of days long past,
For he who guards everything protects nothing.