The island, and all the frosty shore, is gleaming with the final song. Sandy waters in the hands of crafting love, as the lights are growing inward from the frontiers of the island. Standing poisedly on endless rain, with flowers of love and stars ever moving, Calypso prostrates her hand for silence. Infinite voices are collapsing at once. Piercing echoes enchant the forests in circular geometry with illustrations from beyond. Universals and planets are sleeping near the sacred meadows and grassy trees. Red soil and beauty in the pathways of angels.
The young Telemachus, with weakening hands and a sleeping heart. His mind in tragedy as sound and abstraction, with the haunting of the universe standing behind him as a curse from the past. The dark light around him glimmers with sadness. Gentle lines are held separable from the heart, and all the formulations of white earth are dusty clay. Foggy stars in the sleeping of mind, as forests of celestial luminosity and hidden gems of love as mystery. Holy comfort, in the gentle bowl of roses that drink from lovely water.
The nymphs hold hands with the arc around the universe. They relinquish their story with the grasp of the sun. They see crystals and bright diamonds as glittering strong voices. Beautiful beaches with bright lines as tragic thunder. The dying song of holy graves, with Odysseus yet remaining. The world is bleached with forgotten hours and times uncreated.
The shoreline is blue and deep. The waves are strong with motion. On the frontier of the morning, a new world is waiting.