In the garden, on the ground, many things are to be found.
Beauties, trinkets, many kinds, of images of other minds.
Those you think you´ll never get, or those you thought you should never have met.
Yet you have, now you are told, to forget simply, other there to behold.
Rather than that, you play blind, hide the truth behind your eyes,
Quietly just grows in size, unconscious nostalgia, for paradise?
Hidden secrets of the selves, live their lives,
And sentient elves, still grin their eyes,
In lower layers of this coil, they do find a perfect soil,
Through time they grove up, above unseen,
Now they are that of what you dream.