It is in the through night
that slowly passes through itself
like an automatic memory
where we are permitted
freedom to glide with myth
and undergo transformation
we are ageless
we are satellites
there is no Dharma
there is no final symphony
the night is a sorcerer
casting its spell
I stroke its hair
strand by strand
its lips pressed forward
in order to be kissed
there is a green emerald
in the beak of a bird
speeding downward
into the threshold of awareness
into limitless daylight
which gives birth to a sun
faraway forests relate to
some destiny yet to be revealed
there is an eye in the clouds
drunken on disbelief
there is a simile in the shadows
which familiarizes itself with love
every book is written into the stars
and those maps and coordinates which lead to
treasures are held there too
my gentle hand caresses the night again
a large opal cracks to reveal
its ants which race up the arm endlessly
I pull from my heart a single rose
and set it on the stone
interleaved fingers give way to a fertile sky
consciousness is
the emerald dream
surrounded by garlands
its rose colored horizon is sublime
into which the night is finally engulfed
