upon us all

now
i look across this life
under the glowing memory
of days gone by

hanging like a setting horizon upon
an endless turning sea,
austere aquamarines

hanging
like
a kite string
	  slightly slipping ajar
                 from  fingers
                            uncurled

gone in the wind unto
an endless burning sky,
orange-crimson nylon dye

hanging


like smoke rings
always carried
in the breeze,
hanging like sacred smudge

auspicious tiny swirls
hang on the frayed ends of my clothes, little hooks

hanging
like

pictures of a special uncle

hanging
like

soft white coals of
incense
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You are not a wave

From Paulo Coelho’s blog, a story from Serdar Ozkan’s, The Missing Rose.

There was once a wave in the ocean, rolling along, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the swiftness of the breeze.
It smiled at everything around it as it made its way toward the shore.

But then, it suddenly noticed that the waves in front of it, one by one, were striking against the cliff face, being savagely broken to pieces.

‘Oh God!’ it cried. ‘My end will be just like theirs. Soon I, too, will crash and disappear!’

Just then another wave passing by saw the first wave’s panic and asked:
‘Why are you so anxious? Look how beautiful the weather is, see the sun, feel the breeze…’

The first wave replied:
‘Don’t you see? See how violently those waves before us strike against the cliff, look at the terrible way they disappear. We’ll soon become nothing just like them.’

‘Oh, but you don’t understand,’ the second wave said. ‘You’re not a wave. You’re a part of the ocean.’