In a grand, giant hall of masonry stone
The Archangel Michael is talking to Peter
He paces the floor, insistent on action
pleading his case, asking to do more
On a floor of grey stone do I sit and I watch
as the feet of Shivon move hastily past me
He's as tall as 12 men, a gargantuan being
approaching a wall of hieroglyph tiles
He changes the tiles in a subsequent order
which opens a door to another dimension
and steps through the door and out to Olympus
while placating Michael with a frown and a smile
And from up on high I look down at our Saints
as Peter himself now climbs some great stairs
I turn back to see where Michael has gone
but the sweet scent of this World, is one he can't bare
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