Grain and ash — a single stroke of paint,
there are no losses in the gentle haze.
And death is but the fabric’s edge, gone faint.
A child’s first step, with weight the clay to acquaint,
the old man’s trace the patient earth unmakes.
Grain and ash — a single stroke of paint.
The axe’s blow, raised huts — time knows no restraint,
for time, they are but sparks the embers raise.
And death is but the fabric’s edge, gone faint.
There are no bounds to bind the free, no chain,
though flesh is but a mote on the wing’s blaze.
Grain and ash — a single stroke of paint.
No grief is here, no guilt, no plaint,
now all this passing melts into the greys.
And death is but the fabric’s edge, gone faint.
All is fulfilled. Through depths beyond constraint,
I hold the world, a flower, in warm rays.
Grain and ash — a single stroke of paint,
and death is but the fabric’s edge, gone faint.