There is a place br Where ideas come from br And you cannot know for sure br When you are actually there br Because all is imaginary in relation br To that which is already in existence br Or else, it is a copy br Of what someone else br Has brought back to us before... br br Pure truth has no existence, br Being beyond within br The garden of originality, br Where all sorts of unearthy things br Are really grown br And some are plucked by the living- br The explorers, who like these things, br Have been transformed in this world br From the dust of another... br br Love is grown among these wonders, br So, maybe love is an idea of truth br And maybe true ideas are love, too, br That strengthen the more they are used, br materializing each second clearer, br Certain, yet, vanishing undetected br Into dust again br When there is no belief br To keep them from returning again...