Creation, movement of chaos seeking its own primordial order.

Innacurate alchemy.

Swaddled mirror through the job of the centuries.

Rough carving on the face of dreams, raveling hopes with the endless air.

Creation equal to what could result if some day one could really CREATE.

Step of a blind man in an own land with the cane pointing to a precipice,

Unique root arising in the sea of the shipless beside of the world.

Perhaps we don�t perform,

Is the memory playing to restart the labour of the gods.