Such is the mystery,
Of dust and the shape of sand,
Of waves and the alchemical moon,
Like freedom caged in verse and words,
Indifferent to change, still inimicaly altered.
Such things speaks of a nature,
Adherening to the desire,
That pulses, and reshapes,
Reshapes and regains,
New meanings, new understanding,
An attempt, nothing more,
To leave a part, a living part,
So as to be remembered,
In quest of the flaw,
For being remembered, is being immortal.
And that is all there is, such is all there shall.