The space between is the silent river dream,
where the weariness of life has no capturing stream.
It is the hardest deed sowing oneself for seed,
by compassion the soul to soul will meet.
In all matter consumed by the ever lasting love of youth,
embracing the pure spirit in perpetual truth.
The dream in touch of soul,
is the endless story like an open scroll.
Clarity of perceptions is the subtle reflections,
all ideals become serener by so far with no direction.
The beauty for now believed is not forever,
it does not evolve, now and never.
A bargain for a sweet dream and some dire sleep,
the enchanted illusion is the lullaby still to keep.
Noble nature for all you are in gloomy days,
nothing is promised and personal in her ways.
Keeps us searching by hope in spite of all,
shapes and attractions changing the call.
Spirits of attachments by all might to keep,
grandeur of the self inflicted doom to reap.
All stories that exist, heard or read,
are another version of life and dead.
The ‘to be’ perception is the fountain of constant birth,
from the rising Sun at any moment emerged.