The dark night is lit by a thousand stars,
In this unfathomable black sky.
We wander the city streets,
Where evil ligers,
Broken fans blow burning heat,
Amidst forgotten poets,
Across the vast infinite impotent of joy and suffering.
There remains only the irreducible,
As Oscar Wilde wrote:
That the last and final mystery is truly one’s own self.
And here in the night air,
In this wretched sorrowful world,
Oneness undivided without the other,
Is found.
For being it is a gift,
To die,
To be born,
To be alive.
Sighting the moving,
Bellowing waves of the great ocean.