Sometimes we find it hard to conceive of fate,
To accept, led by the hand like a child,

But we are saved, each of us,
As we espy our true benefactor;
Not one taught or
believed to be coterie blind,

But a true saviour,
Ilk of a kind,

One that only we understand,
That only we know;
The anamnesis split.

Could it be that all things previous, to point,
were fruits bourn from this moment?

Set upon a path straying back in time,

Adventive but lucid in the channels of the mind,
Importunate, then graceful,

Our thoughts serry, fray the bonds of mere
consequence,
And extend a hand, celestially bound,
Towards a new font, here;

Non-lieu sans anomie, quietly found.

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