Some requiem must be composed,nfor spirits still weighted to this world.nnA man makes love to sorrow...nWhen the sacred jaws of restlessness, nbring him only burden.nWhen his truths are moths in mist, nnThey whisper: Oh Apotheosis! Oh holy bulb of light!nHe learns that it is his shadow, nnot just darkness that gives form to the night.nnBut we will put some definition to freedom, to the divine, our throats, our strings all wild in vibration, and with that sound we will bring the air to flames.