Amidst the sand, is a sunlight of gardens. Delightful and sweet, it stands upon the ancient stones. In the light of evening, is a forest of stars, reflected in the soil of the paths to Rome. The transfiguration of souls is the essence of time.
The young Augustus, while holding the honor of the ages, is giving up the crown of death into the hands of heaven. His hands and feet are relinquished with gushing water. The powers of the wilderness are mighty among all the ruins of iron and gold. A gentle light, transfixed in glory unmoving, amidst the unmasking of arches, domes and pathways. A mist of blue spirits standing gently over earth, as red clay is in the memory of once eternal Rome.
The clear sun, and the spirit of a world, and the new age as a ghost of moonlight. And the gentle rocks, hanging softly over the dying of ancient things in the mystical glow of memory. The never ending, in the shadows of the ages, the spirits still remain.
The freedom of light, in the transfiguration of memory. The roads and streets alight, with the glowing stars and flowers. The mirrors and the starlight, as gifts of coming dawn. Standing gently on the streets, new forms and ages, and lights, and colors, never seen before in the eyes of all the world. Reflections in the streets, with glories and moonlight. Stones and colors, and the dancing of wild freedom. The powers unfolding, in the coming of the times. The glass still remains, and is colored with new things.
The death of fading light, and yet with all things to come. All souls of great honor, from both Greece and Rome, standing gently to say goodbye. The twinkling of starlight, in the beauty of their eyes, with the crown of freedom’s reign, in the coming of new ages. They pass along their wisdom, to the hands so gently crowned, and to the workings of their art. The seas are twinkling, in the beauties of philosophy. With art upon the holy shore, for new ages to come. The spirits come to honor, in the time of holy death, a final gift of love, they write the wisdom of starlight into every piece of clay and stone, for all the years to come.
The spirits of the art, coming out from the stones. And standing alone in the freedom of light while smiling. The mist transfigures the ancient, and shapes away the past. A light stands remaining, in the preservation of time. The kingdoms come and stand, in sadness and with joy; they watch the ancient stones so reconstrued by destiny.
The glory of death and the glories still to come. A mighty procession of loving hands, in the final play of Roman loyalty, honor, and courage, with thought, beauty and eloquence, in the standing of all memory.
With caution and fear, the emperors from all times past stand and watch the young Augustus as he hands over the Holy Grail into a mysterious cloud of light. The crying of mothers and fathers are resounding beside the seashore. His hands are deeply glowing, and his face has been transformed into the color of purple with his eyes still glowing among the roses; he trembles with fear in the new age to come. The lights are surrounding the procession, and they are perfectly bright and blinding. Unforgetting is his gaze, and in him the time is still unknowable.