The man called child wailed, when the darkness turned into light... The day blossomed into a wide-eyed sun Burning bright with the fury of a wretched pun. I bring the curtains down and paint a golden ember on the walls, till the shadows stand and dance to a distant call. The lilting cadence of a cukoo's song fills the misty terrains of my mind. They say, the metaphor's gone all wrong, the worst parable of its kind. I fidget and now I am just three hundred years old. Silver carpets beneath my feet, I bask in the millenial cold. Come, let us go... to the golden gates to the hallowed meadows where heaven waits For none.