Beneath the temple mound,
He prowls without a sound:
The ghost of my imagining,
In tunnels, underground.

Beneath the ancient earth,
A being without birth;
In restlessness, he walks the night,
To find the soul’s true worth.

He’s not of human race,
Nor bound by time or space;
I know his aspect well, although,
I’ve never seen his face.

But still he wanders free,
Through all eternity —
The ghost of my imagining:
He seems a lot
Like me