standing upon the portal where my eyes have become weary, the cold winds  from  the south bring ghastly fragments of the forgotten land, where, once,  the spirits stood  along the desolate shore to  disappear into the silenced murk, "some by the seven gated Thebes in the  land of Kadmos  There, for these, the end of  death was misted about them", as my eyes slowly descend, the dust  transcends into my frail  structure, the wind, the  cold wind breaks my complete silence, the portal for which I stand upon  collapses, no fear I  shall feel, transcendence  into the peripheral, "and there they have their dwelling place and  hearts free of sorrow, in  the islands of the blessed,  by the deep swirling stream of the ocean", the hypnotised sound of  Boetian harps, created by  the force of the spirits,  the faraway lands no longer seem so distant, nirvanaesque serenity as  the hills become  unclouded, the spirits  embrace my soul, as I envision the neutral spectrum before me, the harp  echoes and echoes  and..... my wings take  me to the bewilderment