Dwindling nights, I find you in.

Dormant dusks, you hide within.

At the place where land and sea kiss,

under the resting clouds and tropical wind,

held in the hands of a summer spin,

a conch lost in quiet, safe in space,

a sleepy caress, a shielding shawl,

to the daughter of the dream, I do call,

When Gaea's grotto does most glisten,

when Zeus's thunder does not listen,

let within; the stems to reach,

let without; the metaphor; the beach.

Open palms to catch the fluorescent rain,

heavy among the place of deepest grain,

in softwood mind, you must find:

The seed of Zagreus wreath,

To grow the rhythm-beat of mountain heath,

To wipe away the tears of river's bane,

under the calm unrest of ocean's mane.

Beware the cold of old cocoon's crest,

rather journey anew to be expressed.

And though good things may die, better may grow.

And though the dusk may bask, you may continue although.

And so I call to you, daughter of the dreams,

I do believe, I do.

That we can learn what it means.