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With the distant call of the archangel,
With the harps and lyres, their songs of old,
With the ominous flute that charms the snake.
Lulled, slowly, step by elusive step,
Into the dark and meandering tunnel
Bent to achieve light from its walls.
Now, as the flow is stalled,
The breath is held, the framework built,
Do the clock's hands fly, or remain still?
The passing clouds may yet drift onward,
As our home wanders its dreary course;
The rivers scarred her yielding face.
And still I journey onward into my tunnel,
Searching for the lyre, the flute, my archangel,
Coming ever closer...