Thunder far away,
cycling up the mountainside;
hail all around me.
Like a glove for my body,
the machine I made myself.

Here below the cloud,
two thousand feet up the hill,
you feel the power;
the suppressed lightning waiting
to find the nearest body.

I regret nothing;
even if this cloud took me,
it could not take this -
that I rose by my own strength
above the mournful skyline.

Below grasping cloud,
I ride the bare lightning rod,
steel for the lightning.
My kingdom is self knowledge,
and my body its people.