The word
Like a genre or species,
it never loses its oneness,
no matter how many times
it splits—like form—
into endless concepts.
No matter how stillness fractures
into turbulence and infinite waves,
no matter how it spills over gardens
on the wings of butterflies—
a thousand colours,
a thousand tastes,
reflecting blooms
within the infinitr of their wing cells.
No matter how it divides,
how it flows through corpuscles
or the galactic vastness,
Water
will never lose its calm, its clarity,
despite commotions, despite contaminations.
Dirt may pollute,
but dirt also filters.
Water—like the soul—
evaporates,
returning to its origin,
to its spring: crystal clarity.
Eternity lies in death—
either in the silence of new beginnings
or in their multitudes.
Splitting and branching may part us,
yet they join us deeper still,
anchoring us in a larger trunk, a broader stump,
like yarn threaded between two needles,
like time suspended now
between two glass-jar of an hourglass.
