Waxing and waning through many phases
from none to full, a gibbous, a crescent
or at times a sliver mere, to mark its presence
No maestro, no conductor, no orchestra to stage
The song that flows flawless night after night
longer than anyone could keep count of it
Spreading the crown across the horizons
painting the seas, the mountains and
all that is in its path from morning to night,
in hues of warmth and life itself
without any pomp or fanfare
The celestial bliss bringing us each,
the peerless present without failing
for millennia of risings and sunsets
Balancing itself delicate
braving the breeze trying to uproot it
off its seat at the end of a stylet
Blossoming into a cheer that spreads indescriminate
sparing none, a sinner or a saint of its scent
No din, no drama, needing no applause or invite
A flower is grace itself blooming selfless
The very breath a mystery,
inspired without knowing and exhaled unawares.
Girted by all the magic that unfolds around it,
the human mind still searches for intent,
a purpose enough to frame the life boundless
and reasons to be happy in the cosmic causelessness.
Could anything be more tragic or unfortunate?
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