When the jacaranda blooms, their blossoms pirouette to the ground.
As I leapt across their starling petals, the dew from the morning’s vacua soaked my feet
To wash away the dust from dusk’s reprise.
And so the longing from lang syne:
It eddies into the gurgling streams
Where the water trickles from the mountain as frost whispers away.
I sit in the aura
Of the jacaranda tree;
In a wistless morrow
Of no importance.
To think of the clock spinning in this slothful murmur,
The gluttony of sweet nectar that is to stare
Upon the universe, the galaxy whirling
In the phantasms carved in petal-paint
Where the planets dance without aim;
Where the wings of the caparisoned stars
That roll across the great sea
Of relativity, flutter
It is folly:
For if this moment had ever existed at all
Is but a paradox
With nobody but my fickle witness
To discern the muddied truth.
It is in the great mundane
Where the human spectra – its different facades
In abstraction, become coalesced;
It is made clear that in the face of the insurmountability
That is the dance of the ancients,
We are but flies
To be swatted away:
Having not the gift
To comprehend the makings of our thought nor reality —
Our understanding a shallow reef
In an ocean embraced by gibbous time.
But still, I smile.
The impermanence hauntingly ornamental –
It is a lingering whisper
Of our transient existence, how fleetingly beautiful:
The theatre of humanity.
So gently, I pray
That this mundane serenade
May follow me in life
In bloom or in famine
Until I rejoin the blank of my birth
That is the universe’s boundless eternity.
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