To the end whatever you have
counted from the beginning.
Questions for spirits, though you probably know too much,
put in motion with a wheel of time.
The clock rusted, though you probably don’t know;
son, daughter - to the silence not of this world, come back
to the hallway with immortal folklore,
to the kitchen with a cat away from modernity,
sleeping upon the stove propelled with birch.
Stars wanting nothing - the maps.
Roads beating with life from head to toes,
so sacred, it is hard not to kneel.
However possible, reach out
through the viscose of hurry
for a string of breath,
and play, play, play until it bursts.
Because all is dreamed to us besides the love,
like Taurus in Uranus.