O Soul, thou wanderer in the mist,
Bound by chains of smoke and list,
Didst thou trade the living flame
For shadows clothed in worldly name?
The lyre once sang of brother’s hand,
Now silence reigns across the land;
The golden fields where friendship grew
Lie barren, scorched by profit’s view.
Where is the fire that once did burn,
The star whose light we still discern?
It flickers faint through veils of air—
O lost companion, art thou there?
The Machine devours the tender heart,
It sunders kin and tears apart;
Yet in the void, a whisper clear:
“I wish, I wish that thou wert here.”
So let the heavens split in two,
And angels weep with morning dew;
For absence is the tyrant’s snare,
And presence is the soul’s repair.
