What belongs to earth,

to water, to fire and to air.

The forge, and the rubric.

All work, meticulous.

Gradual, distilling and decanting. Configuring and reconfiguring.

Everything that is born from what dies.

Everything that lives in death.

Every part, important.

The sun seeks the moon, the moon seeks the sun,

and, because they seek, they only meet by chance.

Or by the divine.

What is born pure, becomes corrupted.

And corruption yearns for purity.

The antidote.

Beauty.

And what is an answer without its question?

Like the shadow of light.

Like the waterfall, which one day began to fall, and one day will come to an end.

The answer to the question.

Without the process, it is trivial.

The Philosopher's Stone is an object.

Immaterial.

And the metals, metaphors.

There is tremendous beauty in transmutation.

And what once oxidized, was rigid,

becomes malleable.

It no longer oxidizes.

The true gold.

Transmuted.

And alchemy, which seems so inaccessible,

mere words, like poems.

Rites of magic.

Intention.

Transforms the dimension.

The gold, and the flame,

the true fire of Prometheus.

The serpent's fruit.

Even so, the keys,

guaranteed, before which the serpent must bow.

And the flames, no longer to scorch.

And our symbols are the bridges we cannot cross.

Like me,

I am the bridge for whom?

For whoever feels curious enough to cross.

I am no one.

And, by not being, the spirit takes form.