Nothing that is temporary becomes infinite;
each thing’s just a project. It starts and it finishes,
simply an effect of a cause, made of composites
that wax and wane. Being comes and then diminishes.
Everything is empty – it is not separated
although it seems to be neatly subdivided.
It is only by illusions it is frustrated;
in that shadow state nothing feels it is united.
Anything that’s trapped in time’s grip stays motionless;
it is not really living, merely an appearance.
A thing grows to another thing, not quite motiveless,
but only what whole contains it maintains coherence.
Something doesn’t come into being from emptiness;
our busy minds create those lines of separation.
While we glorify our own sense of great sentience,
the world is otherwise engaged in all creation.
20 MAY 2025
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