rushing from under ground, wild, untamed purity
carrying to stand in Pleasure Dome,
drunk on milk of Paradise, sated on honey-dew.
It was once mine, inside of me. My home.
From beyond an echo stirs, ancestral voices crying out for war
I did not ask for, enemy I never wronged.
I'm not leader, singer, minstrel, poet. My words are poison to the soul. Honey bitter, sour milk, my lost Xanadu haunting once pleasant dreams.
Nothing left to hold, shadows faking light. "No reality, nothing here to see"--words spoken without substance or form. Caves of ice melt into stone. Trapped inside my mind, prisoner of Paradise.
How did poetry go so wrong? When did the tune leave the song?
What's it all about? Did we misplace our faith hoping for too much?
Drunk on the milk of Paradise, sated by honey-dew,
prisoner of dreams lost in Xanadu.
author's note: see also Coleridge's poem Kubla Khan and Rush's song Xanadu