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Not the same shape in changing light

But different shapes in the same light

That penetrates everything

There is no being behind doing

Only fiction added to the deed

The cold ashes of a dead fire

The locked prison of the moment

A great door through which there is no passage

All roads disgorge to black decay

In the highest circle

mystery reigns over ambiguity

and the frail light of the intellect goes out pitifully

The agony and despair of spreading bones

The foam that flows from the mouths of wild boars

The wheel that hurtles down toward emptiness

The naked flayed head without a face