Creating the past, How long will this last? Bringing back the tracks from behind, How much joy will I find? Sometimes I desire to stay in yesterday’s embrace when I feel I’m short of sufficient grace, Sometimes I want to hide in the night, Away from the emerging light. The past comes to my head, Like a book waiting to be read, I’m tortured by its pictures, They’re like behemoth creatures. The past is a glinting illusion in my room, There’s transmutation to gloom, It reaches out its hand, Even as I run to Glory Land.