A tea kettle whistles as the evening Sun sets;
Its golden and rouge hue is cast on the trees' tops.
The light's blaze heralds the coming of Night's stars:
The children of celestial decay and death.
Inside, with grace and serenity, a woman
Pours the kettle's warm water over some hibiscus
And Earl Gray; she lets the tea seep.
With a gentle sigh, she reclines next to her love,
Embracing this moment's peace.
Then, their lips touch; in that fleeting moment, cosmic
Harmony is found in the twinkling of an eye.
Life's tortuous and Turbulent streams of strife are
Bound instantly, as time and capricious change slip into Being's abyss.
The woman looks into her lover's eyes, blue
As glacial streams, gazing into her other half.
She loses herself in perfect happiness,
Yet a shadow of doubt flickers, for all this bliss, love, beauty, and peace
remains for naught.
From her lover's sweet embrace, the woman stiffly
Presses herself upright and clasps the tea cup in
Her hands. She takes a sip; the warm liquid glides down
Her throat. She finds comfort in her domestic treats.
Then her mind is quickened by a supernova
Of vibrant specters playing. She catches some, yet
Most burst into existence and then fade away.
These ideas, like shadows, cast her reflection.
Within her wakeful dream, as she melts into the
Softness of her couch (her lover's arm clasping her),
She suddenly sees a magnificent oak,
Its leaves swaying—caressed and held—in a soft breeze.
Beneath this mighty oak, she eyes a bed of weeds;
No roses, bluebells, jasmine, phlox, or peonies,
Only a silver stream of flowing mercury
Slithering in a perfect circle 'round the tree.
And amongst the oak's branches, she spots a great crow.
Its black feathers glimmer beneath the Sun's ardent
Rays. It flies from its roost and sits on her shoulder.
Then, with a biting and cold tongue, it speaks to her.
“No flower or fruit will bloom beneath your Moon's light,
Nor will they blossom by the Sun's passionate might.
This lovers' tree is fated to wither and die;
Its form must serve as food for feasting parasites.
Your tree, of Eros's making, has chosen death;
It has chosen sterility's comfort over
Creation's suffering. Its semblance of life
Is but an illusion, masking a dying pair.
In its design is the space, the potential, for
A splendid garden, vivaciously teeming with
Nature's gloriously growing forms, interlaced
And united harmoniously in one dance.
Yet, for your delight, you have woven nothingness;
You are consuming—are consumed—by your vain joy!
Whether you're conscious of this or not, your still
Love leaves a mark; a void beauty cannot fill.
You two have a home, a place to lay your weary
Heads, filled with mutable and ephemeral objects.
But any meaning, beyond delusion's pleasures—
Maintained by truth's denial—cannot be found.
In stillness, you lovers nest, and in stillness, you
Will rest, 'till Nature's duty and Chronos's
Scythe reap your gifts for others to spring forth from your
Flesh; a single form of two that chose still fruits.”
Startled, she awakes from her dream, looks around, and
Finds her lover where she left him, united with
Her in domestic bliss.
