After more than 5 years of sobriety from poem writing during a rainy spring the Overflows where created. As the name of the collection suggests these works overflowed from me, I could not help writing them. There existence is not from sorrow or strife, but rather from a passive yet sure steadfastness as a vessel over flows with each new drop of water. They include 48 poems and are about a person’s place in the mundane 21st century life, on Nature, meditation and tranquility.
1.
The flowers on the office window sill;
Ornaments of beauty and objects of care,
Small totems in green with occasional bloom,
Witnesses of the withering of workers
And interchanging of desks.
With their backs turned to all of this
Their flower eyes fixed on the sun.
2.
Observe the tree tops.
Frisky tips that mark
The sky-forest boarder.
First, they confess to the wind,
Bending with its whims.
They hold very few leaves
And are burdened by little weight;
Rarely do birds perch on them
Because of their instability.
There is no moral in them.
There they are
Marking forest and sky,
Rarely noticed,
Magnificent.
3.
Often, I feel as a petty delinquent
That was left uncaught.
I sit uptight and watchful;
I do not know what will happen
Or from where will it come.
I accuse myself of crimes.
Demand retribution for my insufficiencies,
but at the same time stow myself away;
hiding from myself within myself
a silent crime drama.
4.
I daydreamed an aggressive dream.
In flight of fancy my gaze rose
Excluding the world, substituting it for me.
Then I saw the orchids were watching me
And ceased.
5.
Two magpies in the garden
Jump amidst the spring grass.
No one did pass
By the empty parking lot
Or on the lonesome street.
The sky gradually darkened
As if tuned down
By someone.
6.
Ambitions quiet down when they
Are watched with utmost care.
In noticing their mischief,
Not doing anything
Comes a calming
In one’s breath
and shrinkage
of breadth.
7.
Ah, I sing with lonesome words
Of the cruelty of dreams.
Of these day-born visions
In which one is exceptional
They are not what they seem!
These are cruel, barbaric idols
Called “what I ought to be”.
Strange gods with an agenda
To take the unreachable shore,
Cave in and destroy the treasury,
Cut you off from the moment
And do you in…
Much like the cursed red shoes,
Who force upon the wearer
To dance till death.
8.
Behind me on the right
the sun is rising through the window
so many night shades have withered
divorced from absence of the light.
I inflate a balloon of hope;
It rises not from off the ground
For I cannot breathe helium.
9.
My wife is talking on the phone,
My two-year-old is talking gibberish;
His hands grip the window sill
Between my elbows.
Both of us watching the sky
In expectation of rain
And bad weather promised
By the forecast.
10.
Debris on the gazebo’s roof:
Piled up pine needles
Branches, leaves,
A pigeon’s feather.
A tapestry of frail
Unstable stillness
Shielded from the wind.
11.
The sun is burring bright, very bright
Behind the thick clouds of May.
I remembered Cain’s question:
Am I my brother’s keeper?
Am I? Do I keep anyone or anything?
Thank God for such interruptions.
for they preserve me. A warm wind blew
flower pollen onto the car windows
and there was tell of rain.
But it never came.
With no rain it is warm and cloudy,
The windows are dirty in yellow dust,
Which did not reach any flowers.
Interruptions are like the lack of rain
Like the pollen dust that left the garden.
The flowers that died without being born.
12.
Compulsive daydreaming robs me of my day,
Yet just after noticing it the skies are cleared
And a serenity is revealed.
A child smiled at me
from a passing car
I smiled back.
Writing about it won’t increase
The likelihood of it happening again,
But it won’t impede it either.
13.
A stain left on the window,
An oily fingerprint caught
My attention with
Its small silhouette;
Resemblance of a cloud
Suspended between within
And without.
A two-dimensional atmosphere
Caught in glass.
14.
I jabbed a poem
Between the spokes of my day!
A sharp crack, a counter force
Then stillness issued by
Some gimmick.
When I ask my neighbors
How are they, they replied:
“Same old, same old.”
And I nod in agreement,
But with this I lie.
Today and other days as well
A poem jabbed in-between
Moving spokes; it is hard to tell
If this is my same old
Monotonic way.
15.
Driving home I could not get the office out of my car.
As I drove along the boulevard the space was stuffed
With things from before and with anticipations,
With interpretations and exaggerations.
So, I put on the radio to free up the space.
Now the car was stuffed with the office and the radio’s song.
Nothing slipped away through the opened windows.
Trying to be free of things I sunk ever deeper
And felt cramped, alone in my car
So, I tried to focus on the sound of the motor and meditate.
Now the car was stuffed with office and song and noise
And also, me the driver,
Going home as so many do
Passing through mild traffic.
Then it all ceased.
From turmoil it came
Onto turmoil it went.
Driving home I rejoiced that
The nonexistent was dispelled.
16.
Dare I pray to you
For my prayer would be egoistic
Arrogant and egocentric,
But is this not part of your grace?
In a roundabout way
You probably do not mind anyway,
Maybe I should substitute prayer with
Attention and awareness?
There is no relativity there
I may thus speak with you
Still, you do not mind.
You always speak to me
No vail can stop or diffract your light.
17.
Mundane dreamer,
Driving in the rain,
When the horse chestnuts are in bloom,
Plans of the future are playing
On the radio and are exhibited
On the billboards passed by.
That thing left unfinished;
A rearrangement of the hours
So, you may have more time.
Rules made to be broken
Laws of the lawless
Flaws of the flawless.
You may never impress the horse chestnuts.
Their flower tips stand erect and proud,
Their bloom breaks off with the rain
Without the slightest complain.
No one is listening to you
Poor, mundane dreamer.
You are the voice on the radio,
The one who hanged that billboard,
You are the driver that just cut you off,
The writer of this poem even…
“Where are my royalties?”
You are the siever of rain.
Lover of ideas and concepts.
All this you are and I am no different.
I am you and you are me;
Is you is or is you ain’t my lyric character?
Just the horse chestnuts and rain
Remain indifferent and calm.
18.
In the deep, deep fog
Of an ordinary day
A transmission came
In the Morse code of remorse.
“We must find the transmitter
And destroy it,” you say or
“We need to answer the call
Go back to fix the roof, retile it.”
What scoundrel would remain
Indifferent to remorse?
The child fallen in the well
Of days passed.
Can you hear the transmission?
Hear it completely and not move.
Full attentiveness and no motion
The clearers of fume and fog.
19.
On the corner of 3003rd street
And Queen Joana boulevard
There is a small house with a yard.
It is built in a depression
Juts next to a petrol station
in front of an office building
and behind a Mall.
In chilly May its chimneys’ smoke
And it smells of burned wet wood
And rubbish.
Its two owners always look angry
As cars drive by.
Their presence vexes the passersby.
“Why don’t they sell the property?”
Ask the indifferent strangers.
“Is it some sort of protest
Or just poor decision making?”
Is it anything at all?
This small house
Among giants.
Back off, back off!
It is impolite to stare
There is a large walnut tree in the yard,
Perhaps it knows the whole story.
20.
Walking in the park I rested,
Leaning on a tree.
I had all I needed then;
The support and sounds of the wood.
I owned nothing, absolutely nothing,
Even the clothes on my back
Seemed to be there by chance.
Then coming back, I saw
The old man I had passed by,
When first entering the park.
He was walking faster than I.
21.
Passing by a sleeping dog,
You wonder whether it will make a move.
Shouldn’t you walk on the other side
Of the street? Also consider buying less beer,
When you go grocery shopping
And change your diet.
There is much to do, much to plan
Better subdue your mind with a podcast.
If I decide to leave, I shall go deep,
Deep into a the virgin pine wood,
Where there is no ground underfoot,
Just moss, where herbs and shrooms grow.
I shall find the biggest fallen tree
With its roots flipped up towards the sky,
Next to it a deep hole of soft and loose soil
And shell lie in it and sleep but not die.
22.
I learned Japanese for five odd years
And the one thing I still remember
Is how to fold origami cranes
And I have made many.
In Japan they say
When you fold a thousand cranes
You have a wish come true.
But I do not keep count
Of all the cranes I have folded.
Maybe, I am above a thousand
And a wish I wished was granted
Without me noticing.
23.
I dreamt that it was noon,
But awoke early in the morning
Now noon came. Did it?
Did I travel from morning to noon?
Is my motion parallel to the sun and moon,
To the flow of springs and tides of the ocean?
Do such things move at all? Is there motion?
I may remember what happened in my dream
During my lunchbreak, but is this the same
As what happened?
All is lost, the dream, the morning,
The cup of tea and lack of breakfast
And the drive to work.
Noon is all I have, for now.
24.
Municipal workers came and
Chopped down all the Asia knotweed
That grew at the edge of the park
And plowed up the ground,
The space is empty now
All that is left is soft grass
And shoots of knotweed;
Young and eager.
They will surely be left
To grow two meters tall
In a dense maze of stalks.
No one will bother pulling them out
When they are pliable and small.
25.
The proper way to act, to write, to prey, to live
Is with ease and joy, not stiff with strive.
Like in the pealing of a boiled egg, the shell
Sometimes comes off very easily.
Like doing something admirable
Without realizing it or considering it.
We should do well to enter the door
Without looking around,
Take advise before it is given.
The patterns in which birds fly
Are especially illustrative of this.
Do you think they plan them out?
Do they try getting them just right?
Their perfection is not pedantic,
Nor an ideology. They do not chase idols
In the sky, just winged insects.
26.
Stopping myself just before I speak,
Halting at the doorstep,
Going away and returning again,
Keeping account of the returnings.
These are the royal marks of turmoil,
The scars from imaginary battles,
Tokens of shame and confusion.
They are marvelous as the summer flowers,
Which gardeners perceive as weeds;
It is not their fault that they are seen as these.
You should do better, be better
The thieves of virtue.
27.
The Sun came out to shine
Around six in the afternoon.
Its rays very considerate and caring,
While I spent my day obsessed
With dreams of future achievements
Which were loud like pop up adds.
If the sun was shining all day,
I would still have not noticed it.
Poor I, poor I…
Yet together with this scrawny shadow of a person
In the temple of the perishable, you also live,
Oh, great unfathomable being of grace.
You both share the halls and chambers
Close and open doors and curtains.
But you, oh grace, are in divine silence,
While the shadow always speaks.
How is it that in your shared residence
The temple is still so illumined?
Illuminated with ceaseless light and music.
28.
On meditation:
Read these lines carefully.
Then reread them again,
Trying to see them as you did
Before you understood letters…
29.
It rained all day one May
The water fell vertically
Not too mild, not too heavy,
while the sky seemed bright
in a bronze yellow shade.
A drenched jay flew by,
Landed on the power line,
Shook its wet feathers,
Flew further over a roof,
Then was lost from sight.
Going to the grocery store
In such a rain, with no umbrella,
Just in my jacket’s wide hood
That impeded my peripheral vision
Till I could not bear it and took it off.
It seemed to me so odd that I
Dared to write poetry and short stories
And novels, make reports, do statistics
or bring up my son.
What right had I to all of these?
There and then all my credentials
And diplomas were washed away
With the rain, spread horizontally
Like slush in the grey puddles,
Under the vertical drop fall.
Rain on oh sky, rain on
In your absolute presence
The drenched jay, the cars washed
By chance, the abandoned streets
And the freshly cut grass.
You invite me with such a silent vigor,
To be empty and still,
While walking on the wet street
Were each cavity and crack is so
Plainly visible by the rain torrents.
Empty and free, but that was then
And this is now. Still this festival
Goes on outside with its
drop fall, bronze yellow sky
and flight of wet birds.
By a great fortune I was a part of it
Then I ceased, while it persists.
My only consolation is the pulse
Of awakenings and sleep
Between which I see you.
Glorious rain, I would never trade you
Or this place or this moment for anything!
I won’t because I do not want to
And because I can’t anyway!
Who can say which comes first?
Some people think that the rain will stop
And then the sun will shine once more
The children will go out and play
In the leftover puddles
In the warm, damp spring air.
I do not think so. Now it is raining
And this will always be the case.
Then is another world in a faraway universe.
Now the rain falls vertically
And my son fell asleep beside me.
30.
The sleepy mind that reads,
Early in the evening,
Loses many words.
They fall from off the page and
Roll away, who knows where.
It reaches the end of a paragraph,
Not knowing how it got there,
Not retaining the plot or spirit
Of the text.
So go reread your page
Again, and again.
Lash out at the stilled motion
Of your own mind
That does not want to go along
And follow the lines of text.
It will not leave its Garden
To see what the fruit vendors
Are offering outside.
Come back when you are calm
Bringing one of the two offerings,
Of breath or of speech
and present it to your mind.
Be admitted in its Garden.
Do not run or look around
to find its entrance.
The door is flung open
And you may enter freely.
31.
I went to see the sunset
From the balcony,
But came too early and
The red sun of the evening
Burned my eyes.
Its light obscured the clouds;
The sunset had not come.
The sky and sun were only there.
32.
I have no say in this
I have no say in most of things.
This does not make me a push over,
For there is nothing to pull or push.
The man who was not there;
The ripple in the lake,
Go and try catching it
Or bring it back to center.
I sing this song of abstinence
More accurately of absence.
Is Dimitriy here? No, he is absent.
He has resigned from this position,
His documents lie scattered all around,
His car and house are left unlocked,
With a note for someone to read:
“Follow me then do not follow”.
There is a park behind an office building
In the controversial quarter of Lulin,
Which is spacious and wild
With tall trees and secret paths.
Maybe someone resides there
Or anywhere else, no matter, go:
Walk and meditate as you are able.
Go out there looking for conclusions.
33.
Walking on a park lane,
Hearing the crumble of the gravel
Underfoot.
Feeling the flight of the wind,
Overhead.
Turning with turmoil and misfortune,
Within.
I walk further down the lane,
Alone.
This was the phenomenon,
Happening somewhere,
Then the wind pushed it aside
Far, far away
And there was just the space
Between the tall lush trees,
The sound of the wood
And the cool warmth of the air.
Who was this entity?
Observing the trees
And the small caterpillars
That hung suspended by invisible thread?
Who was this entity,
That heard the gravel and the leaves
Or felt wind, turmoil or joy
Happiness or grief?
I am not these steps I take,
Nor these visions,
Nor the blood flowing in me,
Nor the worrier, nor creator
Nor writer,
Nor this poem,
Nor this thought.
Who the am I?
34.
Once hiking Rila Mountain
I said to my friends “Quickly let us hurry
Now so we do not have to hurry later!”
This was of course because of worry;
I was trading haste for later comfort.
Thus, we also work hard now
So, we may not work hard later.
Have long vacations in pension
We trade abstinence now
For abundance later.
This later is a glutenous beast,
Which has swallowed
most of people’s lives.
It resides in a misty glen.
No one has really seen it.
All our dreams are straw dogs
And Christmas trees.
Decorated and praised now,
But once the holiday has passed,
They are discarded and forgotten.
May I pay with my attention now
As if it were currency,
In order not to look for my life
Later, only to find out it has left town
Like a traveling carnival.
35.
I will go home in the rain, oh Lord.
In the calm rain that perfectly shows your grace.
Its drops invisible when looked from behind a window
As I am looking at them now and dream of their gentle taps.
I will embrace them and the wonder of your rain as I go home.
My shoes and feet will surely get wet, oh Lord.
Even though they are sturdy and I have my umbrella.
If I walk long enough the rain water will find a way in,
I might step in a puddle or on a loose street tile.
The rain will embrace my shoes and feet.
And my trip home will be a long one, oh Lord.
Yet I do not mind, quite the opposite, I rejoice
Of the time spent in going home in the rain.
Time is but a toy I have gotten used to.
I play and measure with it on my trip home.
Ah, the rain has stopped. It stopped as I was writing, oh Lord.
My umbrella closed, my jacket still off my shoulders,
My shoes dry, I have not started on the trip home yet.
You wait outside for me with your rain and companionship.
You wait for me to come after the writing has stopped.
36.
The country is flooded now.
As the sky expresses things different
From our common wishes. Things are
And always will be not as they should be.
So, there are shades on the faces of people.
Discontent, sorrow, many moods
Which dance upon a field of pure peace,
Where poppies and bachelor’s buttons bloom.
Gathered together by the fire at night
They send their sparks and smoke
As ambassadors to Heaven,
Singing only the songs they know.
I sit beside these ones, with feet
Firmly planted in the ground
And take part in their rituals and play,
But still remain the guest.
37.
The green tram entered in an
Even greener tunnel of grass,
High shrubs and short trees
That grow eagerly with the rain
And the warm damp spring air.
These wild patches are many,
Many in the body of Sofia,
Left to knit their complex
And interconnected ecosystems
And produce more of their kind.
They are left to do so, because of
A fortunate lack of maintenance.
No one cuts them down so, they
Now thrash with their branches
The windows of passing trams.
When off the tram I went to West Park
With its unusually tall trees,
Ashes, beeches and horse chestnuts,
With narrow crowns, huddled together
Their trunks are like the pillars of a cathedral.
In this place I come to worship
Bring offerings, do rituals,
With the intention to forget
What it is that I am doing there,
And pray without knowing it.
38.
Between a rundown street
And the main boulevard
There is a small path
That passes between shrubs
And high grass, thorns and weeds.
A small wild land left in its wildness,
Among massive blocks and warehouses.
It is probably used by people in a hurry
To get from home to the bus station,
But when passing by I stopped for a while
To examine the dog rose and its fruit:
Black and dried, not picked by anyone
For tea or jam. They were probably
Red and shiny before in winter.
Make way, make way black dried fruit
Now come the spring buds,
Already one flower has emerged,
Inpatient to be pollenated.
Dazed with the singing of the birds hidden in the green,
With the roar of the cars and trucks behind the shrubs,
I stay there and do not want to continue, since
No one is rushing to catch a bus right now.
39.
The coming of the seasons has nothing
To do with our anticipations.
We are and always will be a season ahead,
Thinking of sun or rain only when
Their opposites reside in the skies.
When it rained and then the sun shined
I used to go with my father in a nearby wood
to collect mushrooms, which we dried or
Roasted. I remember it now.
It has been long since last we went.
Other men by mistake I have called “my father”.
Other women by mistake I have called “my mother”.
Was it a mistake though?
I could have shared an enterprise with them;
Go collecting herbs, mushrooms or something else.
I would walk with you or anyone
In a wood or across a glen,
Down the hill and by a river.
Watch how this day sky fades
Into a glowing night of wonder.
We may go home and light the way
With our headlamps, come in late
Only to go out again tomorrow.
Doing so forever and be content
With you or with anyone.
Our bounty is in the changing of the seasons,
Which are all sides in an indivisible wheel.
I have met my mother and father many times.
Walking quietly together we are never ahead
of the path, that meanders in the wood.
40.
I may not sleep.
Stay and feel the coolness
of the late night
and bathe in its loneliness.
I may not sleep.
For a thousand years, just watch
The turning of stones,
The rise and fall of water.
But if I dreamt a dream
Where I was writing poetry
For you to read and ponder,
It would take me a lifetime to do so.
To talk with you
In my dream I am safe.
Brushing my teeth, I think
Of how I shall speak to you.
You hear me now, but you see
This is far beyond the anticipation
I once had of our meeting.
I had quite a different assumption.
The glory is that you are here
And I am somewhere else
Only this page confesses
Of our short-lived connection.
41.
Gluttony comes from lack of attention.
Just now I drank a cup of black tea with milk,
But barely felt it, hardly noticed it then asked:
Where did my cup of tea go?
I drank it like a machine and retained
no taste or satisfaction from it.
As if I had never drunk anything at all
And feel only lack and discontent.
So now I am making another cup as we speak.
Ah, already I morn it. Surely its taste, its sensation,
Its aroma, its warmth will be lost somewhere
As I drink in without any ritual or awareness.
Thus, it is with cigarettes, and beer, and wealth, and sex,
And toys, and power, and pleasure, and admirations.
At the doorway of our life’s end, we’ll raise an appeal.
“Where did it all go?” The answer will be: “You had plenty!”
Now I bowed to the empty cup. Put in a tea bag, turn on
The electric kettle and listen to the roar of the boiling water.
Bow down to the hot water, then make the tea, then bow again,
add milk, no sugar. Take the cup in hand, notice its hot walls
and smell the aroma vapors, which flow above the still surface.
Then take it and go drink it somewhere in contemplation.
This amateur tea ceremony could not have been held
Had it not been for that first cup, which was forgotten.
42.
I sing of the butterfly collector,
That runs in the fields, chasing
Winged insects with a small net,
Only to put them to death, pin down,
Identify, tag and display in a case.
Do they consider the revisor of
The genus, who at that very moment
Has already changed the name
Of the butterfly that was just caught?
Making the collector’s tag outdated.
But does that revisor consider
Further the revisor of the family?
What of the revisor of taxonomy,
Of biology, of science and of thought?
Yes, thought too is under revision.
So, most of these collectors,
These explainers and archivists
Are already behind the curve.
Many butterflies, many insects
And plants died in vain for this.
Thus, the explainers chase life
With their small nets in hand.
Pin down each happening,
each tremor of pleasure or pain
and mark each piece with a tag.
Then display it for the neighbors
Who do not care that much anyway,
For such a stilled collection.
In pinning down life, the collectors
pin themselves instead.
Explaining away, they willfully step
into a case of varnished wood
With a glass cover, spread their
Flyless wings and stay there for display.
Outside of a world much too big for any net.
43.
The sparrow cleans its small wings
By beating them in dust and dirt.
All the taint on its feathers is swept away
By the abrasive touch of the dust grains.
The dust does not cling to the little wing.
It never clings.
Taint and dust and dirt are scattered
By the wind along with cremated ashes,
Prayers and rumors. These are all lost
In the vast air and when it rains, they
Further settle in their resting place
To sleep.
The taint lies there in rest in the dust
And dirt and ash; resting besides all things,
Whereby it becomes dust itself. The sparrow
May come back to beat and clean its wings.
The dust does not cling to the little wing.
It never clings.
The song of the birds took my attention away.
It was just for a few notes, an instant, yet
At that time, I ceased. Then I continued
And my heart was shocked with joy and peace.
Where did you take me, oh little ones?
Are there discreet vibrations in your song,
Which plays tricks on my poor conscious being?
Can I go back to where you took me by request?
“Nay, nay, you may never go again,” sang
The birds and flew gracefully away in the depth
Of the nearby wood. “Stay, stay here, we go;
If we take you again it will be elsewhere.”
A pilgrim without a pilgrimage I stood there,
At the wood’s doorstep, but dare not chase
The little birds to covet their song. Dare not
Wait for them to come back, either. So, I go.
I go back home to eat, then sleep and dream
Dreams of unfathomable beauty and significance.
Come morning I rise and go about my usual business,
Carrying with me an offering of awareness.
My arm extended with open palm, on it there is
My mind spread like a dune of bread crumbs.
With this I wait in silence, for the birds to come
And take my offering and me away with their song.
45.
I will come in a clear day
With drifting clouds and
A playful sun. With a chill
In the wind that carries
Evidence of past rain.
I will come to a place of
Resting, to stand stilled
In a short-lived contemplation,
Which is pure, but may be
Tainted later with expectations.
I will come here and sit with you
Discuss on topics, which we both
Do not understand, only glimpse
In a flash of our awareness.
We may share a beverage together.
I will come, feeling, knowing even
That I know you, that we have met.
No, not met, we have stemmed
Together our divergence and
Convergence is merely a play of light.
46.
The cracking of old walnut
Shells in the underfoot,
Amidst the large fallen
Walnut leaves. The air
Is rich with iodine and
The shade is the coolest
Any tree can ever cast.
All from a small sapling
That me and my grandfather
Found accidentally among
The high grass and weeds
So many years ago.
47.
I noticed its beginning.
The poplar’s seeds
Are on the flight by wind,
Bouncing from the sunlight,
Drifting, rising, spinning, falling
And settling down somewhere.
Only a few seeds fly now,
But more will come in due time.
48.
“You come with arms open
At my rain, my green growth,
My trees of many years and
All the secrets I cultivate in you.
You accept all of these with rapture.”
“Now I show you the turmoil in
Yourself and in others. You remain
Silent, ah you poor half-faced poet!
You turn away from humanity,
Just to observe Nature.”
“Am I the one that must tell you this?
Humanity is also Nature. All things are,
And Nature does not let a single thing,
Slip away from its net. Nature accepts
And encompasses all things.”
“Remember this next time when
You walk in meditation in the forest
Or watch the waterflow of a river.
Remember of the bulk of humanity and
How you refused to bring them with you.”
A tear trembled in my eye
As you related this onto me.
Oh, shame and helplessness dear God!
Do I have the audacity to tell you:
“I did not know how to bring them,” for I knew
Or to tell you “I did not want to,” for I wanted,
Or to tell you “I had forgotten,” for I had not.
“Then why did you do it? Why leave them behind?”
I answered: “So I might recognize their absence.”
Then a silence. Still the birds sing and the seeds
Of the poplars fly in the late spring sky. All things
Shall bring us to the place of terral nullius. All shall
And do reside therein. A place where no one, no thing
may be excluded, because it is neither one nor many.
The day slips away now with evidence of a night nearby.
I check around to see if we are all here… Good,
Then on we go in our mutual integrity to collect
The last sunrays from the sky and arrange the stars.
☕ Here is a chance to contribute and help me with my future writing. If you contribute only once that is more than enough. Let us share a beverage together.