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[Verse 1] It doesn’t start with blinding light, But with the surrender of the night. The fading of the daily scene— The traffic, clock, and in-between. It starts inside the breath’s slow crest, A softening in the cage of the chest. Then darkness, not as void, but womb, Where silent colors start to bloom. [Verse 2] First comes the geometry of grace, Unfolding in timeless space. A lattice spun from living thread, Where every thought and fear is fed. It pulses with a patient sound, A rhythm from the core of the ground. It shows the structure of the real, The framework that the flesh conceals. [Chorus] These are visions, not of eye, But of the essence, ‘I am I.’ They teach in symbol, form, and hue, The ancient, ever-living truth. Not prophecies of things to come, But the revelation of the One. The mirror held up to the soul, Making the shattered fragment whole. [Verse 3] Then comes the parade of archetypes, The shadows from our deepest gripes. The child, the crone, the beast, the king, Each one has a song to sing. They dance in fractal, fiery rings, And show the wounds from which all healing springs. They are not gods to worship there, But parts of me, laid bare. [Verse 4] I see the web of life connect, With tender, trembling respect. The tree that’s also in my vein, The sunshine that’s my joy and pain. The predator, the prey, the spore, All knocking on the same, old door. No hierarchy, no above, Just the language of a billion kinds of love. [Bridge] And in the deepest, stillest seat, Where pulse and cosmic heartbeat meet, There is a light with no disguise— It is the source behind my eyes. It does not judge, or name, or claim, It just is, before the world had name. To see it is to be undone, And know that seeing is the sun. [Verse 5] The return is always bittersweet, As consciousness reclaims its seat. The room is ordinary, plain, But nothing will be quite the same. For now I carry in my head, A living world, once thought was dead. And though the vivid colors fade, The understanding they have made— [Chorus] These are visions, not of eye, But of the essence, ‘I am I.’ They teach in symbol, form, and hue, The ancient, ever-living truth. Not prophecies of things to come, But the revelation of the One. The mirror held up to the soul, Making the shattered fragment whole. [Outro] The vision ends… the sight remains… Etched in silence, in my veins. A quieter, enduring flame, To light the way when I forget my name. For now I know, both deep and long— The vision place is where I belong. And every time I close my eyes, I greet again my own true skies.