New feelings rain down from these hallways -
Knowledge not quite like before;
Peripheral colors sing "always",
as footprints lead to each door -

Twisting each knob, wooden and old,
like stardust in the sunrise,
emerald skies and pots of gold
paint my young, translucent eyes.

My ancestors weep at the ground once borrowed.
Foretelling the past can be hard;
In essence I walk in the strings of tomorrow
and run to the blood of my bard.

These hallways are my harps of sorrow,
strumming songs of ancient art.