The Serpents dance hypnotically
filling the Void with Thought.
And in their game of wish-fulfilment
the Sons of Man are caught.

Slaves to the Dream Creations,
enflamed by its Hot Desires,
craving ever-new sensations,
singed by the Ancient Fires,
they sink
from brightness into embers
from cinders into dust,
with which they fashion ever new surrenders
for their never cooling Lust.

In their high empyrean mansions,
the Masters watch
and pass down from Perfect Peace –
living, trans-sangsaric ladders
for the burning souls’ release.



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