Inside the smallest movement
time lives not, and yet is breathing.
The world, made up of worlds itself,
is a life-death interweaving.
World unknown to its own self,
it unfurls by means of a breath,
to coil again within the world
of whatever self is left.
Our shoulder to the wheel of time,
we labor toward an ending.
But we cannot change the wheel's course,
unerrant and unbending.
A shard that glows will soon grow dark
and drown in the ink of night.
And here, we're taken up by time,
subsumed within its light.
Sloughing off our parchment skin,
our scaffolding of bone,
we see at last what's lit within:
our light, but not our own.
Time goes to the end of all things,
which is where all things begin;
coiling at last upon itself,
it is gone --
and here again.