“Passion, passion!” Cries the deep
From its mortal fears it weeps
“Passion is, and passion all!”
Echoes down the empty hall.
Tries the other to proclaim,
“Hollow life will be your gain!”
But in the silence it will creep
And from the weeping of the deep,
Through trial and toil it may keep,
“Passion, passion!” It strives to leap,
claims the throne though others seek,
Pain and suffering it will reap.
“Fleeting, fleeting!” Cries the meek
From its hidden, unkempt peak.
Sees all, knows all, still it waits,
For those seeking past the gates.
“Hurry, hurry!” Passion spits
from its greedy, lust-filled pits.
“Slowly, slowly!” Counters Meek,
guiding, warning from the weak,
But Passion, still the crown it seeks,
and in the darkness it will keep,
Crawling, snaring, it will sneak:
drips of sweat and pale of cheek.
And yet here still stays the meek,
through the murk and mire bleak.
Still it sees and knows and waits
for true seekers of the gate.