Soft, sweet ambrosia, flowing from the eyes,
The lips, the pores, the tips of the fingers,
Every bated breath with music lingers,
And groundless faith to the melody dies.Sup on nectar from the Beautiful One,
Reject false cycles for nature's return.
What winter withers regrows come spring's turn.
The Cities must fall to restore the Sun.I cannot deny the song of the seasons
Tempts me forward, promising freedom
From man's casual cruelty to man.
Yet nectar's calling deprives all reason,
Binding me closer to nature's fiefdom—I should resist, but I no longer can.
—Impressions skimmed from the mind of the Dolores King Memorial Belltower