From the gardens of Sardis I have surfaced; sweltering backdrifts tossing me to and fro, vascillating between emaciated hands. But I don’t mind the cadaverous spell the rays of light pressing against my face effect. I brush it all aside, gently marching forth into this new day.

The celestial tessellation is collapsing, brittled and aged, it falls down onto the earth in whispers; rushing and clasping the endlessly floating airs. They dive, these susurrations of hope, melting into the glorious earth of darkness; rich and vibrant steppe soil.

And I am forced to look away, into moments of pure thought. I am distracted, unable to believe in the spewing shrapnel screaming and prancing in delirium through mysterious silence.

On the dusty path of locomotion that distances from the gardens of Sardis, I encounter a diviner, a brahmin filled with words and gestures; he gives himself in embrace to the winds and he offers me sound advice. He claims to have just found me, I who has just lost himself.

With his hands of silk he points here and there. Every completed manual gesticulation fastidiously overdressed in histrionics. The mundane is transformed into the fantastic, a world of black and white into one of grey hues; infinite and eternal.

Submerged, plunged violently, into a metamorphosed world; the necessary turned into the poetic. The prosaic has been transmuted into the epic and I washed anew. I cry: “Brahmin allow the light out, let the darkness bleed into this place”.

“A bitter-cruel wait remains,” he says and takes me by the hand.

The wending road flying fearlessly through the distance holds a world, hollowed and vapid. Behind me lie the gardens of Sardis, fading impressions of a Golden Age of effulgent summers, calid and splendorous. So, here I stand.