In the boiling Cauldron
Where cooks the sleeping plantling in its grain,
That hath swayed happily in the breeze before one grain
Of Sand sifted slowly through the hour-glass.

In the scorching silk of the desert
That builds a tomb in its dunes,
For any weary pilgrim who might falter
Without one vital vial of water.

In the arms of the Oceans
That hug to death,
Any, that fails to steer his flailing limbs ashore,
For want of one gulp of precious breath…

In the wrathful reprimand
Of the Teacher,
That made many a grave sin
Remain uncommitted.

In the poisoned sweetness
Of the Soothsayer’s saying,
For which was paid a price
Greater than the suffering which sought sooth.

In the Hunter’s sling that shot not
The animal unarmed.
The Soldier’s sword
That killed not a fallen foe!

In the heart of the man that died not,
So his many kin may live.
The mother’s pious prayer
That brought another’s child safe, along with her own.

In the merciful eyes of the Saint
That blessed an insulting tongue.
The falling tree that shaded
The axe, until it was beheaded.

In the numbed Mind that suddenly recalls
Moments that could have been lived better-
In the Slumbering Spirit that suddenly knows
That the last sand-grain has sifted through the hour-glass.
Which topples itself up again,
To witness once more
The Essence of Life.