The Shiva Hypothesis - Faustian Restlessness

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Awaken the gale in the voyager’s sails
on the trail to the golden mountains
and hasten the pace of the warrior’s race
in the face of the golden mountains.

How far can the promise of progress drag us?
The sea stretches endlessly.
Should we even be confined to the boundaries of the planet?

The winds of change blow, to the restless,
the symphony of conquest, the concord of enterprise.

Wild dreams torment me as I lie.
And though a god lives in my heart,
though all my power waken at his word,
yet nothing in the outer world is stirred.

Volumes filled with tales of your odyssey,
void minds grasp at your enlightenment.
The worth of a man
is measured by the shadow cast on his peers.

The winds of change blow, to the restless ear,
the symphony of conquest.

Progress, what does progress count for
when the fruits of labour wither in the sun?
Orchards stretching acres, but lacking irrigation.
The sower who fails to harvest starves on barren soil.

Descend from the golden vapours
and sweep me into iridescent life!

Stared blind on the constellations, the window to the pantheon.
Sacred ground trodden underfoot with fool’s boots.

„You have tasted all of life‘s pleasures, sensation without end.
Yet nothing seems to satisfy you.”

There is a violence inside me,
there is a gaping hole within my soul.
There is a desperation,
born out of urgency and necessity to outdo my foes.
There is an obligation to the world I inhabit
but there is a weakness inside myself.
There is a fire, there is an ashen reminder
of my previous conquests and the disappointments of yesteryear.
There is no respite, there is no shot at redemption
until I have claimed what is mine.

There is an unrelenting restlessness.