The tendrils of foreign powers mask my ears and eyes.
I cannot move; I am as one hypnotized,
Blinded by the luxurious allurement of greater ascedencies.
A beckoning force (almost too strong to be born) breathes, whispers,
Shouts promises, commands, and paragons, known and unknown.
The fragrance of these mysteries leaves me drenched.
I can see immortality clearly.
Born upon the wings of intercession,
I savor this encounter and adore.