‘Memories that fade away
Have not left their mark
But you live on, every single day
In many different ways

It’s the truth between his cunning lies
That hands him his suspicious alibis
Persuading with your force will never be the way
To our destiny

Suddenly we’ve lost the force
To close our cursed doors
No one seems to realise
That wolves are in disguise

It’s the truth between his cunning lies
That hands him his suspicious alibis
Persuading with your force will never be the way
To our destiny

Your engine was so strong
But the road was just too long
Hope is not the end
So never lose the faith

As long as we can say
They can never take away
Our freedom, the most precious thing we’ve ever had
The reward from the blood, we’ve ever shed

His quest for higher truth, life of eternal youth has just begun,
in spite of being on the run
Many virgins wait for him to come
Persuading with your force will never be the way
To our destiny
Our destiny’… ‘Safeguard to Paradise’ by Epica

• (Illegitimate: not carried out, made, or constituted in accordance with the law, the rules governing a specific activity, or social norms and customs…Unlawful—Illegal—Illicit—Dishonest—Prohibited—Criminal—Banned—Proscribed—Forbidden…) Wondering if—‘Being’—is Illegitimate?

The Glass Beaker Folk—glass handlers all—gather ‘round petri dish—dishing out samples—of small fleshy beings—and large bark folk—decide to mix—and their creations—are forms-of-forms and other-forms of twin-spin shapes—‘cross planets’ twirl—simple complexities—arriving with baby cries—little howl—-And! Wondering—if one—stares into eyes-of-disarray—one—finds an honest illusion—without confusing-disillusion—or solution—keep-seek—or chose-to-lose? Wondering if the gods of Beaker Folk—created—creations—with wrong formula—uses and mixes of—humor and myth…Immaculate contraptions—birth—and dissonance for—every-other—sun—sister-brother—reasons and rhyme—along with bottled time—working cords—yesterday’s—today’s and tomorrows’ sighs.

A historian—wrote that future’s Child— “did not need to be told that the angel of death had passed over the land; they had heard the beating of its wings”. So! Wondering if—‘The reason the Dead—do not return—nowadays—is the boredom of it.’ One fare-to-fix—One fix-to-fair…Life is precious through any form—Life animates…Every style-type of flesh—be stone—bark—smooth—fur—as sweet life goes—becomes and ends—and becomes again…’Tis good donchaknow…

Stand beneath moon light —before-the-form—of Draped One and cast motions—gentle designs ‘cross this easy night. Be tall—be short—be large—be small and Be—gather to hear the—soft waves scatter ‘cross—shore and land—beneath feet—bare or fur-covered—both—warmed—in the air of night—and—safe inside the—darkness of an easy—light. Watch shadows of bridge span—and steel—as wooden shapes—pass underneath those—towers of man—created when young species roamed—earth-bound and—the constructions of shapes and water passages—filled the world—before—the tearing days—and—summer’s song. A night bird cries—and another—winged one settles—protected within thick tree grasses—inside those shadows—of the moon.

Once Star Child said—‘That along a Martian Ridge—one line—eye stretched far—was a stutter of thorn—then throne—then grain—then throne—then repeated—until distance—failed seeing and sight disappeared when ridge—merged sky—and—matter dropped—from surfaced rust. And! On these staggered thrones—Writers’ names etched’—crystal tags—attached—along the top-front—of every throne.’ The Spacer—thought these folk—may have belonged—to some type of ‘Club’…Creative Spirits do—gather—one-time-or-maybe-two—to watch sky—etch forms—dissolve—appear and disappear—while often dancing ‘cross—so many places—to many races—as often they appear—only to disappear—and reappear—again—once-in-a-while—you know…

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Safeguard To Paradise’—by Epica