Somewhere between my birth and death,
flowers wilt and sulk, leaves breakaway,
and the wind carries the seedlings.
Things fall and deteriorate,
things are crushed and tumbled --
yet a new leaf turns and life flourishes.
Spring is the start -- the youngest.
Summer’s never giving in a hurry,
yet Winter is ready to take away.
Somewhere in the middle of the beginning,
When time was formed and my soul carried on,
the world was young and stars were their own gravity.
No precious light, no vacuum, no sacred clusters,
only celestial music being formed.
Sometime before it all existed,
there was something standing even stiller --
Motionless, idle, even static; an entity of something greater.
Floating in a place that is so pure,
so tender and raw.