The labyrinth is lost. The incessant mirror

The labyrinth is lost. The incessant mirror
reflects a turquoise sky that was created
by no one. You are the indefinite dream
beyond perception, unrevealed by the suns
of imagination. The unknowable stars
revolve as an elaborate, mysterious puzzle

we cannot solve. The labyrinthine puzzle
of love presents me with a hall of mirrors
that fills the infinite space between stars.
Who is the person that at once created
earth and fire, wind and rain, golden suns
and empty moons? I'm lost within a dream

of repeated vigils. You won't find the dream
in utterances of truth, nor in the puzzles
of mystics. The labyrinth is a purple sun
obscured by a veil, or the eternal mirror
of an ocean holding heaven. I've created
nothing, the bright moon is a sleeping star

of fate. The labyrinth is a lonely star,
or the poetic interpretation of a dream
following a modern program. You create
seasons, months, calendars, lunar puzzles
that occult the faithful servant's mirror.
Take a look at the dazzling, idle Sun

revealing lovers and poets—the ruined Sun
that rules the sky, removes the other stars
and seems to have no ending. In the mirror
of a friend I apprehend the ancient dreams
of priests and prophets enamored by puzzles
or muttering mantra. But who has created

these words? Whose waiting face created
a verse that eclipses the terrible sun?
Whose prayer saves the oblivious puzzle
of time? Whose eyes resemble endless stars
repeated in the impressions of a dream?
The labyrinth is lost in restless mirrors

created underneath the wandering stars,
but suns disclose the incessant dreams
we puzzle over holding up the mirror.