Gold sun on the blue mountain Dappled clouds thru the bent tall trees Morning climbs the filtering wood Evening descends low to the stream A bountiful, beautiful picture Vanishing, fading by and by Emblems, ephemeral tokens Raise, yield, fall and die The same clown with a different face The same man in a different cloak As long as the mode of weather The sleeping blue, the waking gold Light as the froth on the gurgling water Winding by the tree Awoke in a dream of puzzle Hand held head with finger hasps Fit in snug the riddle pieces In the poetry of a thousand pasts In the rhyme of every season To the tune of every tide In the mounting of a thousand suns Casting by they wont abide Hear the memories of a thousand songs Fleeting, they were never written From the stories of the sleeping queen That scribes have all forgotten Falls the petal of the flower On the branch of the tree Quivers light of the archer's wand Arrows path thin set between The flesh and the seed of the fruit On the branch of the tree in the dream of the queen Set a staraway child from the crux and the cradle Weaving the onerical design Coursing thru five fingers One hand pours the water and wine And though the cloth has a thousand laces The thread has just one strand Sheathed in motley costume Each in a different cloak, the same man Run the sap in the root of the tree