The Through Night

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