The spring of Krim, from whence the Mysterie floweth;

where the good drink is produc’d and consum’d.

Where all are humble, where none is false

and sad tales no ear hear, as such words are unspoken.

There is a Fountain

design’d by no simple craftsman,

but by that hand that reacheth

from the Beyond.

There is a Fountain

worshipp’d by true seekers,

who will find in their seeking

the words from Beyond:

Who will hear that strange bugle call out magnificent,

who will find, verily, a peace forever valid.

And none shall wrest it from their grasp,

as they grasp, indeed, Eternally, Forever.

There is a Fountain

by the great Livare, in that place

where I once stepp’d, yet stand

no more.

There is a Fountain

that was lost to mankind

as we crossed the threshold and

denied the Maker.