In truth we live, and move, and have our being,
but not solely from reason born and bred;
imagination's grace makes truth eternal,
touching on what is beyond aeon,
in deathless towers rising above the land,
a citadel beautiful in life.
In that place we live lives other than our own;
with new vision our eyes open;
the common is made strange, the old is made new,
the odd familiar, the distant near.
There we who sit as judges over the realm
are judged by the beauty of fruits reaped.
High rise the spires, the steeples in their glory,
where fantasy endows truth with grace,
where streets are paved with gold, of jade are the bricks,
the water in fountains leaps brightly,
and there, adorned with symbols in greatness,
truths rise like the dwellings of the gods.