What difference does it make
whether everything is happening in this corner, or another,
whether being seen from this window or the other,
whether if you are my Eve or a dot
in these piles of grist,
a speck that repeats in all the wings of butterflies,
here and there
being woven in the curtain between now and omnipresence,
a dot in a such picturesque panorama,
in these immeasurable objects of feelings
pinning down on my chest,
or a rain stain
on the window that separates and mirrors my tears,
whipped by the whipper of these clock hands?
What difference does it make
in which bench nest
I am watching the flipping pages of these seasons,
this autumnal rage,
These burnings, this last explosion of colours in greens,
while yet buzzing with their chilling noise
under the skin that is germinating?
What difference does it make,
from where this beauty pours in and out
to my heart
or any other heart at all
that my heart clings onto?
Countless others also witnessed this splendour
from countless other angles
in time and space.
We all share this beauty.
We all see this movie.
with different setting and casts,
to get a glimpse
in to the collective consciousness
a glow,
flams that moulds, each time
to a different dances and danseuses
in the twilight penumbra of
togetherness and separation,
the melancholy that excavates so deep in happiness,
the beauty that takes our breath away
though act as oxygen to us,
wows us and sadden us
saddens us because we know the leisure of beauty
is only a reminder
of ending.
