Beside a quiet tree he reads,
Sitting in the weeping branches enshrouded,
They seem to slowly tumble down,
He holds the keys to life and death.

Wisdom and power sit open in front of him,
Their pages are splayed out and pale brown as if stained by tea,
Before him they flow momentary from his existence not preceding,
He is Himself the perfect communication of the invisible one.

As he drenches the surroundings with his presence,
It becomes simple that he is the purpose and substance of existence,
Such notions of power and wisdom do not reach his depths,
He holds both galaxies and hearts of men in his eyes.