Epitome XIV

In a glittering halo of lights defying reason, the magnificent dome of a black Temple looms over souls.
 In the cradle of God they let themselves be reborn, to contemplate without keeping anything, to hope or to expect.
 There was nothing left of these centuries that bent the body, extinguished the life, denied the pure existence and its principle.
 Alone a profound echo answered the origins and magnified with each new breakthrough of the silence.
 Time no longer pounding, nothing had been, nothing would ever be.
 It's architecture of monumental fantasy, it is false comfort in of itself.
 In a halo of brilliant darkness, they merged with the sublime moment, the Great Evil that all life awaits.
 They saw their improvised work collapse on itself then serenely forgot it without wondering about what follows.
 They sank within the ephemeral, supreme, delicious, alcove sanctuary of the immortals.
 That which was is no longer, that which will be is not, and the chaos fell silent.
 And the chaos fell silent.