2016 09 13
Though all the things we build crumble to dust,
our towers fall, our books dissolve to mud,
our cars clank dead on broken roads to rust,
our televisions stare back at us blank,
and our voices are silenced by bleak wind,
I will kneel in soil by the sparkling stream,
plant small seeds of herbs, vegetables, and fruit,
and tend them till they blossom from my breath.
After statues of kings crumble to sand,
and cities are covered by whispering dunes,
I will walk into shade of yellow woods
and stop for a while where two roads diverge
to gaze at purple mountain majesties
that rise above the plain littered with skulls,
and contemplate how the tall pyramid
far outlasts all contests for power and fame.
I scratch runes of visions that flash my eyes
in swirling white sand of relentless change,
and song of my voice is swallowed by wind
since atoms that compose web of my brain
sparkle as they dissolve to drops of rain
when model of this world and all its lands
I carved on my skull crumbles into soil
where seeds transform my flesh into sweet fruit.
Sunlight sparks seeds soaked by rain to grow tall
into trees that blossom fruit I consume
when I strum vibrating strings and sing spells
to enchant boys and girls in paradise,
then children spring from our bodies and hearts
as we crumble to dust and fertilize
apple trees that blossom fruit they consume,
and she sees me when she stares in clear pool.