The rainbow forms the prism,
Stellar light is clear.
Arches form a path into gloom,
The mystery still dwell.
Among them is he,
Apart in all but blood;
Between beloved and the lock it lurks
Or was it a paper bag?

And yet...

O ancient who hath forgotten
That which you never knew;
O traveler, will thou rest tonight?
To sleep unforeseen, to escape
The missing chasers.
What have you wrought upon us,
forgetter-not-forgiver;
in blood spoiled,
a bird to call root;
The scroll to guide in light.

And yet...

All the lines are converging
Upon a heap of sand;
From seven and seven
is one.
In truth lies its doom
as is its victory.
For one is all done;
one is two,
one is past,
one is now.

And yet...

And at the end,
a question yet lingers:
Beyond such shadows of the past,
Across the mists of future,
of importance to him, it seems
for reason still unclear;
One more puzzle,
quaint and wrapped in corners-
Who Am I?