Mesmerizing: fractals of leaves were forgotten,

Dropped in the past by a passing wind

While prayers drifted, ceaseless,

And empty spaces began to drown.

I suppose there was not a great deal of time

Without boulders slowly breaking,

Grinding down to dust.

Although sacred muds of certain shores

Maintain their fluid form,

Both fine and heraclitic,

Our instinct doubly softens:

Now, man forgets his shifting faces,

And with unseen toes,

Dips down in foggy waters.

Whether dawn or dusk,

His half-dreamt dark does not betray,

And whether past or prologue

Remains untold until the day.