And so as darkness fell on the first of days and the skyline opened wide
The Heavens in their oblique majesty did speak of an old and holy grove
Enumerate in starlit forms how the trees came to speak in tongues
And what it is they say through a conduit of horned form

O', lowly Pilgrim!
How dare thee have the gall to seek
My graven image, stead and swift among the grass and leaves?

Know not of malice
O', benefactor!
Know no pretence at my side!
Know not of where it is you came from
Know, Pilgrim
Know of these three things

The Sword that is not a Sword
The Sound that is not a Sound
The Face that is not a Face

These boons, I give to thee
O', Pilgrim
To light the way home!