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First, the circle of the land, sun in sky,
moon in hand; time and space to understand.

Next, the circle of the mind, smart to try,
perhaps to find knowledge can't be cruel or kind.

Feeling passion without end - often cry.
Good-bye friend; greetings you will never send.

Circle where the saintly hosts seem to fly
with idle ghosts; and the Prince of Lies can boast.

Appearing to permeate withal, "Simply I,"
the I shall call. You aren't who you thought at all.

Now, into the center of bliss. Echoing sigh,
soothing kiss of the things you thought you missed.

When you reach the realm of light low and high,
what is sight? Pass to day and leave the night.
Seven Circles of the Son
The night keeps beggin' the moon
to stick around. Don't go so soon.
'Cause it knows who'll be around
walkin' the streets of a lonely town
thinkin' of you. It knows
it'll never get over the emptiness.
It's that kind of tune.

The typhoon tells the sea,
"Be careful now. Again, it's he
sailin' your waves - breathin' my wind,
wonderin' why didn't it begin
without a chance to even end.
He carries a sorrow much deeper
than you'll ever be."

The canyon calls to the river it holds.
She sings proud. She sings bold.
"You wear me down making me rise,
perfectly contrasting the skies,
only to be swallowed
by the ocean in the dead of night
so very deathly cold."
The Canyon Calls