Creating the past,
How long will this last?
Bringing back the tracks from behind,
How much joy will I find?
Sometimes I desire to stay in yesterday’s embrace
when I feel I’m short of sufficient grace,
Sometimes I want to hide in the night,
Away from the emerging light.
The past comes to my head,
Like a book waiting to be read,
I’m tortured by its pictures,
They’re like behemoth creatures.
The past is a glinting illusion in my room,
There’s transmutation to gloom,
It reaches out its hand,
Even as I run to Glory Land.
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