The crystals inside are the salt of the earth, the salt of the sea.
My Eden, guarded by two angels, impassable guardians,
targeting their sharp points as they follow the curious onlooker's gaze
as he peers inside the wall. Statues not, not marble, but of aether.
Aether angels keeping watch, never sleeping, never ceasing.
Generation happens here, all generation happens here.
Protected by its visible invisibility, my little Eden, a dimension so small
you can hold it in your hand, so large it renders you irrelevant.
Could a wolf sniff it in the wind? Its old age of the time before man,
the time before he took sand in his fingers and let it run through them,
piling it up, planting a seed, planting for the next season.
Older than that, older than anything, made of the
first universal stirrings, the first universal dust.
The first universal unsleeping, unburdening, awakening stirrings.
The crystals inside I carry, you carry.
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