At the seething and fiery center
He sits upon his ebon throne
Within his halls of darkness
Which no man has seen and survived the vision
Both blind and bereft of mind
He pipes unceasingly on his reed flute
And the notes that rise and fall in measured patterns
Are the foundations of all the worlds
Ever calculating in sound the structure of space and time
Were his flute ever to suddenly fall silent
All the spheres would shatter into one another
And the myriads of worlds
Would be unmade
As they were before creation
The flute of the blind idiot
Both makes and unmakes the worlds in ceaseless combinations
Spinning on the woven carpet of time
No creation without destruction
No destruction without creation
To unmake a thing is to make another
Each time a thing is made
Another is destroyed
He sits upon his ebon throne
Within his halls of darkness
Which no man has seen and survived the vision
Both blind and bereft of mind
He pipes unceasingly on his reed flute
And the notes that rise and fall in measured patterns
Are the foundations of all the worlds
Ever calculating in sound the structure of space and time
Were his flute ever to suddenly fall silent
All the spheres would shatter into one another
And the myriads of worlds
Would be unmade
As they were before creation
The flute of the blind idiot
Both makes and unmakes the worlds in ceaseless combinations
Spinning on the woven carpet of time
No creation without destruction
No destruction without creation
To unmake a thing is to make another
Each time a thing is made
Another is destroyed
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