The Gold of the Ruins
Alexis Naranjo
translated by Henry Klein
I
Figurations
The Cross of Exile
My staff has the seven
eyes
that shine on the cross
of exile
when a fallow deer raises
its outline
in the forests of my
hearing.
And after gathering the
final sheaf
a thousand smells become
visible at once:
from Daedalus is the
twine
I thread in that mirror.
For the sounds harvested
like silver
apples aren't enough for
me:
after ripening in an oboe
the rain comes of their
symbols.
And my every hazard's to
garner that light
so that my arrow hits the
mark:
thus my shadows no longer
flee
when the moon's born
again.
See then the unruly sign
that illuminates my life:
seven are the eyes that
shine on my staff
when I raise up the cross
of exile.
Quicksilver of the Possessed
I may not hang myself
with that rope
if my rites and practices
are tugged at
but the alluvium of my
precepts
will adorn the travellers
with a crown of
fathomless depths.
I tell you that rope's
for
climbing the heights as a
sign of my good faith
although the dreamers
seethe below
in the cascade of my
claret.
And no more limpid
honeycomb
or deliquescence of
mysteries.
What fury there sleeps
in a warrior's guitar!
I tell you the flowering
of my delirium
are ten tritons kissing
your lips.
They'll give you your fiery
opiate
in the chalice of the
moon.
So it is that watching my
mask
I see to the depth of
your mirrors.
Who doesn't deny me
will drink of my blood
in the fiestas of the
other life.
And if you make these
sounds your own
that bear so much that's senseless
then what your heart
longs for
will lavish the fragrance
of my lotuses.
And I tell you should you
fail to hide your hands
at the hour when the
daemons
lay down the cross of all
that's been lived through
your vices so finely
fashioned
will dance in my ensuing
furnace.
So here's
the question that I ask.
If in your archangel's
niche
you're both creator and
the shade
what'll it be like ...
the fiesta you attend
with your desires already
sated?
Dead of Night
And how should that
daydream not bring me
this whirling of girls
offering themselves
like bounteous shadows
when I recover from the
earth
the silkiest light of the
dead?
But see now what a friend can offer
the soundness of this
misery
the warrant to receive my
spectre
the impulse to elevate the
ultimate unknown.
Stormy moon
who at dead of night
fathoms your sovereign source
keeps raking up past
certainties
that demand just one more
vibrant body
crystal of greater
madness
opacity newly insane.
Yet in the innermost
abode
my mind outdoes that
light
those certainties that
dazzle.
Figurations
The one who goes around
dreaming me
listless progression of
keen-edged manuscripts
his paintbrushes ripping
apart
murmurings and tenderness
and evil...
The one who slips on an
enigmatic tongue
where osseous days are
broken
and nonetheless walks
afflicted
gathering armatures and
clocks
to climb up to the death
that awaits him...
The one who goes through
verdure
where fin-de-siècle
laureates dabble
and yet straying through
alien tunnels
loses his shadow among
enemies
that parade through his
head inflating dolls
for the smiling maids of
honour...
The one whose iron vitals
regale him
with orphic flowers for a
leap beyond all bounds
AND WHAT A LEAP
fifty betrayals of the
numinous
and some larvae devouring
an enormous scroll of
habits...
The one who hangs his
suit in an invisible closet
thinking thus to exorcise
his angst
and that feeling of
rejection
while his eyes sharpen on
the festivities below
and a bell rings loudly
from incredible heights...
The one whose thirsting
heart
antique spout that sips
his rigid nerves
and the bitterness of his
blood...
That creator bereft of
wholesome magnitude
hermit and his
troubadours festering
in the pith of falsehood
the goldfinch that pecks
at them
and the murmuring of
supplicating beasts...
That nullity that cipher
venting his fury on
undreamed-of entrails
to live at last
dancing his nonbeing
in the seething fervor of
a hiding place...
Recovered from the distance...
and hopelessly pure
like the inner curve of
restraint
they're what's happy on
just one leg
the ear's perception in
its needling forest
the stampede of immovable
remorse.
In their azure they're
both the decoy and the leech
uncertain calm
a whirling in the nest of
what's inverse
the deadly glamour of
snakes and apples.
And when looked for they
themselves impart their riddle
that lechery in which
they disaffect
needful as they are of
other shadows
more inert and more
caressing.
Them! Love in a hot flush
of tatoos!
But turning round they endure
among wreckage
and their nerves drink in
what quavers
the bitterness of lonely
nights
the silence of defeated
marriage beds.
Temptation of the Sphere
A succubus
has brought its gift for
my solipsistic pirouette
in this declining zenith
and clamorous its jaws
close
on black and roaring
flames.
But with twice its
strength
I feel like drinking that
fire
and among dancers taking
communion
guide its dromedaries to
my desert.
Blind impulse eager for
life
to have to force this
void
right up to the gaping
maw of mystery
and that the succubus
offer me
a custom-made shroud.
Sadness to those that
live within the Sphere
in what's glutted by
rapacious limits
the heart of the succubus
no longer tempts them
and yet they heed no
warning
sheltered as they are
in the tomb of Sameness.
Tempest
It's the taste of
invincible dogmas
though I reach out my
hands though I draw in my death.
Just leave me this
crackling fever
this subjugated shadow
the infinite heaviness of
the atom of my soul.
For it's the taste of
invincible dogmas
raising itself up outside
like the climbing of a
paternal ragbag
like the eye looked at by
a hundred suspicious mothers.
And it's the taste of
invincible dogmas
swelling up in time with
panic
when whistling's the only
smokescreen possible
and in our skin dreams
ulcerate
and acid runs from life
to life
in the inane progression
of calendars.
So flee from the
ancestral albumin
and sustain yourself in
pliancy fed
by the taste of
invincible dogmas.
Invincible dogmas ... a
priest told me once
"Yes, I like them,
you can see they come from somewhere else"
and examined my heretical
fount
appending snakes to his
sentence.
But here you are (I told
myself) husk of the minute-hand
my dogmas suck bodies dry
sinking sedulous thorns
into the heart of all
distress.
And there's no end
as it's the taste of
invincible dogmas
hauling me into the
tempest
of burned and blackened
gods.
You tombstones of
hardened silence
my dogmas hew out an
Oedipus
crowned with gnarled
entwining beasts.
The Third Death
If we enter backwards or
crossing ourselves
only the gash of hell.
Not the honour of the
void fondling our nape
but the flow of the body
out of the body
while we await the dusk
like nomadic
statuary in chasms bewitched.
If we enter backwards or
crossing ourselves only
the gash of hell.
Not the honour of the
void rehearsing its refinements
with gloves and periwigs
but a pair of glasslike
hands powdering our face.
What swathes us then
is gunpowder asleep
and octopuses that gasp
for breath and gulp celestial crowns.
Our breathing racks us
while we deform our hands
with the currency of love
and its raging bonds
spilling the salt of
clandestine beds
and in that viscera
fingering what rustles like dry stormclouds.
Stricken with apathy hurt beneath our masks
deliverance there isn't
the body
fleeing the body
nor the prayer repeated
until it rusts
nor amulets against the
terrors of the night.
If we enter backwards or
crossing ourselves
the gash of hell.
Not the grave or its
ineffable embrace
but the placenta of
scorpions
a winding sheet of
poisonous delusion.
And how far then from the
desert
whose mirages beguile us!
For now no witchcraft can
distort response
neither opiate nor
anodyne
in the warlock's
offertory.
On entering backwards or
crossing ourselves
we are
the kiss of a huge
burning bottle
the headless queen in a
kangaroo's pouch
the blowfly and the drone
excreting on a royal coronet
the bull and bullfighter
copulating honiedly.
On entering backwards or
crossing ourselves
we only arrive
at the gash of hell.
Intermezzo
And you, spirit that
repudiates the pleasures of the flesh,
whose snare demands my
most rapacious cupping glass:
what's in it for you?
Your grizzles world is
what
I pierce and tap trailing
these heavy gyves, my only
legacy among mankind.
What's in it for you?
You only want to live,
to live on the sustaining
cross and dark exalted things.
Since what is yours but
mist? – yes,
a mist in search of
beings
that rage in the ear of
implacable prophets.
Thus your wonder when
those beings loom,
overturning your demented
cups
and snarling you in a
rush of scalding tears.
And this because the
prophets have come to revile
their loveliness and
poise,
have sounded clarions of
triumph
and then stumbled in a
swaying isolation.
But you, spirit,
overlooking them,
have worsened a wound:
timidity and mammon
stirred in your choked,
unruly blood.
So I haven’t quite
managed to shun the surmise
that you were going to
throw salt on the fire;
I’ve trodden on your belt
in all bad faith,
giving myself airs
oratorial emboldened
by stormy delusions.
But the wound which you
worsened
has taken revenge,
girding me with its taint;
a huge Z has bitten my
flesh
designing to steal what
was longed for of mine,
a huge Z in whose mouth
larvae of yours
have eaten unspeakable
shame.
And this because you
threw mist on my hurt
and I saw that from under
my chair
you plundered the spoils
with the live sustenance.
Then you hurled ever more
mist
while over and again a
prophet bit my hands
and from behind my face
deformed by slow torture
there flowered this
earthy, dry craving
in pursuit of your
treachery.
But I’ve incited those
beings in vain
for even the
neighbourhood dogs
have refused to calm down
with the sum of my spoils,
the sustaining cross,
those things most dark
and divine.
II
Other temptations
Corps Noh
Her back wants to be
looked at
the shadow that awakens.
In the brotherhood of
witnesses
she uncovers her back,
not the cutlass that bleeds
but her desire for the
forbidding father.
But the taboo moves down her
thighs
speaks retiringly
and then wanders up her
skin, impure messenger
only unfurling does it
challenge the body it has dreamt.
But she wants to go
within
to founder in another
fire
while the witnesses seek
her breathing and her mystery.
Thus she consoles herself
feigning innocent gestures
vapours with phallic
outline
and the cutlass in the
most blissful prolongation of a sigh.
Indifferent to the
lighted half of her body
she inebriates her
responses
her unendingly smooth
skin
that red-hot coal between
her thighs.
And so she opens herself
to the forbidding father and isolates
and delights in him and
with appetite now sated
she bites herself like a
small gorged beast
her blood on the cutlass.
Such her habits
a two-handed blow to the
brotherhood of witnesses
and our inflamed desire.
But her hair hanging
loosely she falls asleep again
indifferent to the shadow
that surrenders.
Pas de Dieux
They've been given back
like blazing pebbles
like butterflies in a
surge of glimmering waves.
And they can be heard in
a gambler's secrets
and guessed at like a
double pythoness. They can
be and perhaps they will.
For they can
bring me the custom of
undressing the hours behind
the whisperings and
insist between violin and viola
on that silence where God
peeps and pries
retreating sinuously
eternal voyeur
with His phallus so fresh
and fervid and fragrant.
But they can also give
Him back
His Eden and His sceptre
obsessed as they are by
the feast in which Belial
will possess them
on His Holy Table.
Necromancy
Overflowing,
self-possessed in my nothingness,
I kindle this whim
and raise it up in
veneration.
From my cigar, slow
garlands that unfurl
besiege my body
and school it in the halo
of what's godless.
And, whimsically, I
fondle the necromantic's bed:
altar that celebrates his
breathy tang.
But when he awakens,
he'll gather the frost of
my artifice
spilling resistance from
under my sex.
From moon to moon,
together we'll wander
redeeming the light of my
odalisque at rest.
And then, puerile old
pervert,
with flickering touch
like coins newly minted
that dance on the
odalisque and shift
my most secret desires,
safe from death
(safe from love!),
I'll reshape my longing
and leave
languorous qualms in an
epicure's turban.
So we'll unfurl the
mirrors
and sink our teeth in.
What an abundance of
dates on the table!
Let's help ourselves then
to
the sable undress of our
fire.
Emblem
Unctuous death you
whisper
and it's your magic in
the gilded night
and the devious kiss of
your vivid pageant.
Desirous maiden,
endlessly young
you cry out though you
fail to scorn - speak -
odalisque of the pearly
moistened tongue.
Lust and sin in your
bosom are
raptures that absolve
odalisque who embraces me
and
says
reach out your hand, unclothe me, and exult.
Nubile odalisque
in you the Word is
copular
but divine.
Speak - sovereign lover
odalisque of the pearly
moistened tongue.
By the Estuary
So to await you
waylay your footsteps
think of something else
impure metal or dented stone
my hand advancing between the hours
holding back their torrent
hollow my heart
smoky mirror
for a fire condemned just to wait.
So to remake you
latch your shadow to the moon's curved rim
your silhouette of shining days
the trace of that which
rescuing you
lost itself in the rain
nymph of the estuary
light and wayward amid so much distance
enigmatic as an ochre dream.
So to dream you beyond all dreams
enclose you in the stillness of an instant
with the seas and the years all around
with the topaz of your eyes
and your image of finespun silk
and your seaward lantern
and your frostbitten star.
So to forget you
release your shadow
the lure of my wound
the mirror of my pride
the echo of my error
the provocation
of your reserve.
III
Speculum
Emanation
And one remains after all
pliant block of so much
nothingness
empty blather
no end of hills without
any space
not even a gust
that isn't your own fire
made hoarse
and hardened
and wavering lines remain
stitched into the
selfsame wind
the selfsame angst
the selfsame scaffold
drunk with life
insatiable Tantalus
hermaphrodite Limit
dishonoured Numen
all my blind ones
my scars.
Cleansing
To give myself to this
decree
without my frenzied
rapture ebbing
or death's sanction of my
fate
striking in the depth of
every casket
to be like this strange and similar
blustery coupling of
bizarre misunderstandings.
One void and another and
may the sky perfect its revenge
redundant wretch unanchored
loathing in my own
detritus.
Let me not cease to build
my shattered monument
headland of memory
murderer's dream amid
kingdoms coined in the dregs
in the depth of a crevasse.
One hammer blow and
another on my forsaken tomb
and let the sky not hide
its baleful face
in a monstrous mask of
glory.
Sacrament
It's this shrieking in
the mouth of my guts
this endless flying
this attrition amid
heaped-up masses of cloud.
And it's the necrotic
hoarse crepitations of the underworld
laughter that explodes
like a wound in my face
and my braying like a
blood-stained flower
though I crumple
among androids that
contract
to give birth to my
doubles my savage shadows.
For I come staggering
blow by blow
to hang from a
thread my life transfixed
with my darling in
genuflection giving birth
to the powers of death.
And it's the crucifix of
my phallus
and that sun ghostly food in
my eyes light of the tunnel
where I watch
as life ferments and is
excreted
in the molten matter
of
pernicious sores.
Face
It's my mental fractures
and this chewing of
images
and the corroded ovarian
depth
where I'm crushed by
the lovely sorrow of an
impulse.
And it's that very
impulse that burns my nerves
this circle of sunbeams
this abundance of a life
already wasted.
But it's between shrieks
and whining
where there drools
the genital slaver of my gallows.
Speculum I
Gory chasms they are of
this my female soul
a pit where I live and
chew confessions
a fire which I inhabit
like the dark one
spitting oaths drunk with disgrace.
And this gnashing sound is mine
mine the hands of the
murderer when they absolve
the sacrilege of my
death.
Triumphant paradigms ...
my spectre is thirsty.
For if beneath my shadow you weave
resplendent plots
the aftermath of love
I cling to this abyss
to the frenzy of the
bodies I've profaned
to this foetor of
maternal entrails.
Triumphant paradigms
my spectre doesn't scoff
here where the sky
subsides
and scaffolds are raised
and the most fecund
tortures are lavished.
From within from the deep fecundity
I gather these fruits
a panoply of pontiffs and
proclamations
cartilage and whips
warriors and sentries.
They're my female retinue
the scarifications of my
envoy.
And it's the same
radiance that yesteryear upheld kingdoms
and the illusion of their
unhappy prodigies.
But hallowed by the dross of mystery
right here on my altar
there congregates
a ferment of reptiles and
thistles
the dry resin of a
lightning flash
the vomit of my
survivors.
And thus beset
and garlanded with stigmas
this is my haven of
brittle treasures.
Speculum II
I'm the
dark depths of a remembrance
guarding
silence in that chasm
the camel
of the blind spot
the shadow
stitched into my bones
the crash
that devours what erupts
the
softness of the lower world
God's
dreaming exhalations.
I'm His
most hallowed abyss
in the
light of His eternal agony.
IV
Death at
Daybreak
I
You discover another life
in the past
it's your combat
your sorrow
and your silence
at first light
bereaved as you are
of that shadow
death haunts
dark at daybreak.
II
I'm dying within myself
as in you
I'm dying high up in the
nothingness of height
alone in the loneliness of my
death
I'm here scrutinized numb with
cold
helpless in the idle course
of a teardrop
forgive me
I'm from somewhere else
from a life reduced to ashes
from just an instant of doubt.
III
Laughing sadness
you've cost me a lot
my eyelids weigh heavy in your
theatre ... I don't know
tormented by your shadow
the passing of the years
the unmoving wheel on which I
leaned
for it was this
wreckage in flames
footprints lost in the snow
promises we didn't want to believe
and it was this
silence without pity
lure of oblivion
questions sometimes against sleep
did we know how to love?
did we really want to?
IV
Death is singing
can't you hear?
your child is coming
are you in time?
you stop
does it make sense?
Are you singing or dying?
V
What I dream is blind
it's the unnameable blow
the pain which can't be named
the duplicity of that blow
what I dream is blind
mask that uncovers my face
silence that proclaims me
rasping of desecrated light
but I'm far away
in the porous hills of death
there where my lips are
singing
are singing
to the poet's spit.
VI
Footsteps on the stairway
is it me?
dark intimations that I'm
somewhere else
careless of my being
in the spectral whiteness
where chronicles begin
the shadow of what I am
sunk without trace
ink upon ink
fountain without birds
final harbour.
VII
Believe I'm visible
in a drunkard's sarcasm
in the forbidden word
in the lie that protects me
believe I'm in you
as if your presence were
enough
your body now visible
in the blindest transparency
of my eyes.
VIII
It's not certain
and it's from somewhere else
the air holds the promise
and the promise isn't you
in the descent
in what has no form
in what you couldn't express
the air holds that promise
in the covetous light of your
dreams
in the pittance
you covered with gold
lies the answer
here's what you waited for
the bitter fountain of the
rain
its tortured babbling
here are your eyes
burning
in the salt of your wounds.
V
Seduction of the Shadow
I
I'm going with you:
my silence, my pain, this immovable grief.
I'm going without knowing where:
deserts, bleak uplands, cities that bristle with rage,
vagrant delusions, intimate gaol.
I'm going with you
(we're crossing through night-time and storm):
single handed, a fugitive,
no words to offer,
only true to your path.
Though nothing and no-one await us,
just remembrance of friendship,
come on - why be sad?
Though I've no comfort to offer
already I've lived quite enough.
I'll follow your footsteps forever. No rest.
II
I didn't want you for myself:
you mirrored my insults with spite.
I didn't seek to hide
but you stuck to my face without pity.
Today, I woke up and
knew that you'd waited behind:
huddled down in some dream,
you were shielding me there.
But now that the skin
of my face overlays,
you see with my eyes
and you speak with my mouth.
III
The bond that unites us isn't moral but vital:
this erosion, this bitter withdrawal,
this one-way gaol of impassable pain;
the last, the cold resolution that rides on my bones
and throbs in my brains.
Silent my mouth,
it's my heart that says this, its blind
palpitations a bond
from the innermost part of the world:
body and soul, a life that we've loved
to a point beyond bearing.
Ours is this fierce separation,
never-ending, alone.
Yet I hold out my hand:
our journey is long and there's no turning back.
IV
May this love wound not
forswear but return to
me the stygian flower
and may Buddha's lotus
unfold from my blood
ten times a thousand shining petals.
V
No not blinded yet
avow your hardship
decant your bitterness
cast off your illusions
brighten my way
attend my silence
moderate my mind
oracle that you are
oppose this endless night's
despair.
VI
In a forest of words
I've lost myself so many times
with all the frenzy of inflamed desire.
Nothing took me there
but this wild craving
this thirst to vindicate
in me the world
fever of guilt and release from sin.
But now that I'm on the other side
the distant fire of man corrupts
earth and sky becoming shadow.
This smoky cloud of words
today I am that forest
its soundless vertigo
its dense unease.
VII
Mine are another's hands
another's my face
my distance.
Reclining at the foot of a tree
I seem to wander far away
my silence bespeaks tumult
my secrets are made of glass.
One and double I play my truths to the death
when I tell my lies.
Ubiquitous devil ... my dice are loaded.
VIII
Whirling of silk
radiant dove
you shape and consume yourself in the air
muse of your own primal dance
sleepless night
harsh endearment
you come and yet you go
a tear brimming with absence
but was it you
passing through the cool of a daydream?
or was it your brightness
seeds of the moon
shadowy silk?
IX
Cloudy and dark you come
to the windswept plain of my abandon.
An unearthly silence enfolds me.
The birds have taken flight
and now the air is still.
Nothing moves in the unbounded sky
save for your shadow.
X
Don't point at me
temptress
avert your gaze
I'm the rain
oblivion
the wind
forsaken evening.
XI
Don't ask, hurl me
your shadow, your mystery,
your warm and fragrant breath.
Tell me nothing,
heighten the whisperings,
the currents of underwater fire.
No, not naked,
just linger, nibbling as you sigh,
and move along my body
with the silken spike of your tongue.
Don't rise up in restraint, Lilith, but drink
the blood that you draw, O trembling
mistress of my joy.
XII
The jackal will finish off that emaciated angel.
On the way, in the small hours,
the creatures of my dream get back their instinct:
sleek skin in motion,
electric of my temples.
That arupo tree mislaying its fragrance,
the stream meandering on the hill,
that ibis and the moon owl,
all feed together on shared light.
Fecundity sacred and arcane:
your vapour swathes the visible
and everything trembles, in the small hours, on my way.
XIII
When I arise
lord of my death
I embrace my shadow
and advance to the secret.
Come with me wayfarer
to the top of the ancient hollow
this shadow climbs robustly
unfolds foretells
itself
is light but light divine.
XIV
bitter that love
bitter for happy
bitter for lewd
bitter for lost
if I still dream of your body
in me
pour not your aloes
embers of my grief
love bitter
love joyful
love salacious
I laid down my arms
and you killed me with them
XV
darkness tender
darkness female
darkness ethereal
you flutter your wings
bring me to you
you part your lips
give me your wine
you gird your breasts
listen to my heart
you caress your womb
breathe forth your redolence
gossamer darkness
lighten my way
exalt my body
restore your mystery
XVI
Ward off this vanity
this brazenness
this bogus revelation
this mournful tone
only be yourself
unending
frail
melodious.
XVII
The wheel of my mind I will not move
but that of my heart
may one hand be enclosed in another
in another may one look be entranced
may one body another pervade.
The wheel of my mind that will I move
not that of my heart
may that passion gently pour
may it be precipitate
dearest shadow
tenuousness of here and now.
XVIII
I'm thirsty: they give me salt.
I'm tired: they offer me a bed of nails.
I'm sad, defeated and alone: they present me with a mirror.
That's how I recognize today our human tribute.
XIX
May it be mine
the flower burgeoning from pain
mine its tremulous perfume
mine its twofold open wound
and mine the thorns of its heart.
VI
The
Light Restored
Instant
Only the joy of a perfect
chord
the hallowed presence of
the shade
the poem without words
the fragile creature of
dreams.
Migration
Full moon on the sea
a game of cards in the
neighbourhood
the children running on
the beach
now not even to silence
am I tied.
Fluttering
Labyrinthine stillness of
the wind
that the swallow crosses
to reach my hands
still-warm nest of moon
and lightning.
Metamorphosis
I did away with my old
worm-eaten self.
How much light
chimes between my hands.
Gifts of the Light
The wing of death beats a
retreat.
I give a grain of sesame
to the one who guards the
dawn.
Final Birth
I shall not lavish gold
with my words
only orange blossom shadow silence.
Meditation
Many ideas
few ideas
no idea
only the wind
that marvellously blows.
Mental Canvas
Interior work at daybreak
beautiful apron stained
with colours.
Nymph
Twin-sexed flake of foil
shimmering among
dolphins.
It settles in the corner
of my mouth
in my secret rejoicing.
Buddha's Squaredance
On leaving the labyrinthe
how much light whispers
I walk everywhere and
nowhere
my song sings of itself
like the flower of
Udambara
that blooms but once.
CONTENTS
I Figurations
The Cross of Exile
Quicksilver of the
Possessed
Dead
of Night
Figurations
Recovered from the distance...
Temptation of the Sphere
Tempest
The Third Death
Intermezzo
II Other temptations
Corps de Noh
Pas de Dieux
Necromancy
Emblem
By the Estuary
III
Speculum
Emanation
Cleansing
Sacrament
Face
Speculum
I
Speculum II
IV Death at Daybreak
I to VII
V Seduction of the Shadow
I to XIX
VI The Light Restored
Instant
Migration
Fluttering
Metamorphosis
Gifts of the Light
Final Birth
Meditation
Mental Canvas
Nymph
Buddha's Squaredance
