When I became world-weary, resigned to growing old,
I glimpsed another country, all glittering in gold.
Its tongue spoke in a riddle that to mine ears rang clear,
The sharpest ever chorus I’d had the joy to hear.
With wisdom rhymed by Khayyám, a sip of Adeline,
Some canny turns from Yaffle, and finest thoughts of thine;
In strange-familiar voices, familiar-strangeness meets
On golden lands as timeless as the record this defeats.
These threads weave magic netting, a spacetime of the mind,
Where radials are broken, there’s mirror fix designed.
In Luna-ticking notions the joined line ever runs
To country bathed in golden light of arrant thieving sons.
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