Every now and then I think I see a shadow
stop between the flowers.
Where is the death of the moths ?
Is it in the external form of the flames ?
The last words of a leaf are not spoken hence they are words.
There is space everywhere to come and go.
That’s all there ever is in the end.
Everything becomes insignificant because they are significant.
To return back to the moving of the breath is the last anchor.
There is not even the slightest vibration.
The heron breaks the stilled mirror with its beak.
The wind brushes a droplet spilled on its smooth feathers.
You taste what it has tasted.
Even though you have not moved an inch.