The dry leaves
– Apparently ignoring –
That they use the wall as a ramp
Taking their impulse from movement of the air
They also complete the message
The beginning of the mornings
And the end of each afternoon
For the eyes which are opened by thirst.
The calm almost extenuating
With the sadness
It balances its permanence
In the heart of one who understands the view
Also in the persistence
Of time and its consciousness
The log changes in its own rhythm
Able to burn in the appropriate flame.
These orders that don’t need
To be understood to be completed
Continue scratching the dimension
Of their own undecipherable battle.
So that the heart of someone
Continues beating not because
It knows that should stop doing sometime
But because it isn’t its immediate origin
That it has perceived its near end.
And the nail inserted in the wood
Expressing its temporary permanence
Demonstrating clearly that nothing or nobody
Survives to its own existence
That the summit is found
After overcoming its origin
As it is accessed to rest
Not because the body is unlimited
But for grazing its own limits.
The scattered hours
The rough carpet for rough feet
And the tragedy of the images
That still affects the idiot.