Through years of intense meditation,
I yearned for the power, the sursurrations
The philosopher's riddles, locked in time,
That would unleash the shackles of my mind.
Upon a mountain, deep and wide,
It was there that I broke through the other side,
And it was within the darkened light
That I first heard those whispers in the night.
They came upon me one dark night,
The secrets of immortal delight.
Yet untrue was this bounty of gold,
For it had no life; it was so cold.
It was the lock, it was the key,
It was the thing that should not be.
I stared at dawn, its tresses bright,
Please rid me of those whispers in the night.

At first I resisted those evil cries,
But there was beauty in those sighs.
Soon I learned that no logic, no deduction,
Could save me from its twisted seduction,
For it held the answer to the unknown,
Of things long dead and those ungrown.
And so I thought that I just might,
Listen to those whispers in the night.

One saving grace would make me blind,
But the lampreys would on me not dine,
For a void thrall stood strong in its grue,
And issued forth: "The worship pylon is not for you."
And so it was that I joined the hive,
And in so doing let out this cry:
"Bring it forth, with all its might,
So I may listen to those whispers in the night."