Down from the stratosphere the shutters fall.
Ice steel sheets dropped by mad experimenters.
Upon the Labyrinth of past and future ways.
And who can say, if they are randomly arranged,
Severing this memory, or cutting off the blood,
To those fine futures, which we once espied?
Or if they are aimed perversely or in spite,
To cut where it hurts most,
Severing that memory, or cutting off the blood,
To these fine futures, which were once denied?
Only the pure in heart, can hope that they,
Shepherd us through the ways immutable,
To seize a jewel of infinite desire.
As for myself, lacking that faith, I can not but suspect,
That we are Pac-men, and the world our maze.
The fruits before us and the ghosts, behind.
The score invisible, and the player, blind.