Old I am not – ancient I am.
The struggle of my endless search
Had never ceased – still bleeds the lamb
That I have slaughtered to exist.
“Existence” – dying, born anew,
Growing to die another day,
Stretching the time, as if I knew
Why I still act the same old play.
One day I’ll take you by the hand,
Touch gently, lovingly – just so,
Look in your eyes, cease to pretend,
That what you are I do not know.
And you will smile, in ancient eyes
Reflecting traces of the road
Which comes to end as we arise
Joined in our oneness unto God.