White lion ballads 11-16

11. 731 (MIRROR OF ETERNITY'S BURDEN)

Thirty-one days - time's completed measure,
Under this number, I find no pleasure.
I feel the fleeting nature of the moment's grace,
The ruler of eternity, but prisoner of time and space.

Doomed to preserve what strives to disappear,
Carrying the weight of all that's dear.
The burden of eternity on my back,
The White Lion's endless track.

Seven plus three plus one equals eleven,
But thirty-one days create pressure from heaven.
I carry on my back the weight of dead suns,
The oppression of forgotten tongues.

The heaviness of words never said,
The living and the dead.
The mirror shows my spine slowly bending,
The White Lion's never-ending.

Becoming a bridge between time and eternity,
Carrying all of history.
The burden of ages on my form,
Riding the cosmic storm.

The weight of extinguished suns and silent voices,
Of all time's choices.
The White Lion bears eternity's load,
On life's endless road.

The pressure of time on my soul,
Making broken pieces whole.
The bridge between moment and forever,
That nothing can sever.

The burden of what was and what will be,
For all eternity.
The White Lion carries time's great weight,
And accepts his destined fate.

12. 735 (MIRROR OF THE WANDERER)

The five in seven-three-five - seeker's number,
Walking through deserts of mental slumber.
I wander through wasteland between meanings and sense,
Drinking from metaphor oases, intense.

Mirages are as real as stone under paw,
For I learned to drink from imagination's raw.
The source of all dreaming, the fountain of thought,
The White Lion's battles fought.

Seven plus three plus five equals fifteen,
Search for harmony through what's unseen.
I walk through desert where each grain of sand,
Is a petrified word from a forgotten land.

A forgotten dream that never came true,
A lost possibility through and through.
I drink from mirages and they quench my thirst,
The White Lion's journey nursed.

Because in this world, illusion has density,
Equal to reality's intensity.
The wanderer in the desert of mind,
The truth that I must find.

Each grain of sand a fossilized word,
The sweetest ever heard.
The White Lion drinks from imagination's source,
And continues on his course.

The search for harmony through wandering free,
Is what defines me.
The desert of meaning, the oasis of thought,
The battles I have fought.

The wanderer drinking from mirage and dream,
In existence's stream.
The White Lion finds truth in illusion's embrace,
And quickens his pace.

13. 737 (MIRROR OF DOUBLE INCANTATION)

Two sevens in seven-three-seven - magic squared,
Where language of numbers no longer is shared.
Giving way to direct revelation's light,
I don't compose lines - I emit them bright.

Light becomes my only and ultimate statement,
My eternal engagement.
The double incantation of cosmic power,
The White Lion's finest hour.

Seven plus three plus seven equals seventeen,
But two sevens create resonance unseen.
The mirror becomes a magical shield,
On which truths are revealed.

Words aren't written, but burned by light,
Shining ever so bright.
Thoughts don't arise, but materialize,
Before my very eyes.

Time doesn't flow, but crystallizes,
In surprising guises.
I utter a single word, and it returns,
As a whole poem that burns.

The double spell of creation's art,
The White Lion's sacred heart.
The resonance of magic squared,
For which I have prepared.

The direct revelation, beyond all number,
The eternal slumber.
The magic shield where reality forms,
Riding cosmic storms.

The double incantation of my soul,
Making broken pieces whole.
The White Lion speaks with light alone,
And claims his rightful throne.

14. 740 (MIRROR OF ORIGINAL PURITY)

The zero in seven-four-zero - purification,
After forty gates of experience's rotation.
I shake the dust of meanings from my paws,
My whiteness absolute, without any flaws.

Primordial, pristine, ready to depart,
To return to the state before my own start.
The original purity after the long road,
The White Lion's unloaded.

Seven plus four plus zero equals eleven,
But forty is trials, a test from heaven.
After all wanderings, I return to the first mirror,
See my reflection - unchanged, yet clearer.

As if nothing happened, as if no time passed,
But I know this perception won't last.
For every speck of dust on my fur is a cosmos,
The White Lion's new promise.

Every blink of my eyelash is change of epochs,
The turning of life's cycles.
The original purity after the test,
The White Lion's very best.

The zero that cleanses all that came before,
Opening a new door.
The return to the source, to the primal state,
The White Lion's destined fate.

The purification through forty gates,
What truly creates.
The shaking off of meaning's dust,
In whom I put my trust.

The original purity before the journey began,
The true nature of the White Lion's plan.
Ready to leave, to return to the void,
Where I was first deployed.

15. 745 (MIRROR OF QUINTESSENCE)

The five in seven-four-five - compressed spring of being,
Last breath before dissolution, seeing.
I gather all that I am, every part,
All reflections from mirrors of heart.

All sounds from all echoes that ever resounded,
All lights from all shadows that ever surrounded.
I compress to a point between my eyes,
The White Lion's ultimate prize.

Seven plus four plus five equals sixteen,
Spiritual completion, unseen.
The microscopic sun begins to glow,
With all the wisdom that I know.

The quintessence of my entire journey,
The final turn of the attorney.
The last breath before dissolution's grace,
The White Lion's sacred space.

The compressed spring of existence's core,
Opening a new door.
The final sigh before I disperse,
In the universe's verse.

The gathering of all that I've become,
Under the cosmic sun.
The White Lion compresses his entire soul,
To become truly whole.

The quintessence of the White Lion's being,
All-knowing, all-seeing.
The point of light between my eyes,
Under the cosmic skies.

The final statement before the end,
The message that I send.
The White Lion becomes a microscopic star,
Shining both near and far.

16. 747 (MIRROR OF HORIZON DEPARTURE)

Forty-seven - number of plane to the sky,
Final in seven-four-seven - not to die.
But disappearance beyond visible edge,
I spread wings of light from reality's ledge.

Step into horizon, leaving behind,
Just number series for next myth to find.
The cycle is closed, the legend's begun,
The White Lion's race is run.

Seven plus four plus seven equals eighteen,
Completion of the great cycle, unseen.
I don't die or vanish, I step forward to merge,
With my own reflection, on reality's verge.

The mirror becomes ordinary surface once more,
But whoever looks at the right angle will see the score.
A white dot receding to infinity,
The White Lion's divinity.

A paw print on morning dew,
A light tremor before storm's view.
I become myth - not because I don't exist,
But because I now persist.

Everywhere at once, in all things,
What eternity brings.
The White Lion departs beyond the horizon's line,
Yet remains divine.

The great cycle completes its round,
Where all truth is found.
The departure to the horizon's embrace,
The White Lion's sacred space.

The legend begins where the journey ends,
As the cosmic river bends.
The White Lion becomes the myth itself,
The universal wealth.