Crossing the river Lethe which carried thou thither
Through lands of oblivion from out yonder
Nursed back to health though mortally wounded
Seemingly wholesome yet memory beclouded
What knowest thou that knowest not thyself?
Borrowed knowledge is but wretched pelf.
When to thyself thou doth not belong,
Misery thou wreakes, so this misery can prolong.
Feelest not thou, pangs in thy heart?
Like fate in some lore that rends love apart.
For in every victory thou sense self-defeat,
As to ash does turn gratifications surfeit.
Harken! Harken to that voice though forlorn,
That echoes in thy mind at the crack of the morn.
Sing they of times of such felicity,
Bleedest thy heart of all duplicity.
Awake son of Aryavarta, open thy eyes,
Awaits new Albion to take to the skys!
Ash covered embers stir in anticipation,
Of what is to be a conflagration.
Shakes off the lion his perennial stupor,
At long last his tamer he shall devour.
Regaining the elephant in strength his trust,
Shall trample his Mahut into the dust.
Consuming its smoke shall leap this fire,
Rising to heaven from its earthly mire.
As became the elixir from oceans churned,
Proclaim ye! Proclaim all –
Thy king has returned.
