From anonymous islands
On an isobar
To anonymous men's eyes
Under binary stars

Such is your white span of Time-
It is not saying anything,
For the centre of us not to exist
It understands
It must not say anything.

The last of men still sail
With triangles in their eyes
Circles of endeavor
Knot old ties
Illusions of contact
With the constellation's
Truth:

None will touch that pathless land,
Not while the impassable coastline
Of Faith
Pounds new sands.

The dunes hide etched lenses
Blurred systems rest their
Sleepy focus:
The whispering of
Secret arcs-

An ocean magnetised
In lunar phase,
Lone wanderers will
Reappear only when
Our winds behave
And sunken sight is saved.

And then the
High
Hertz
Heard
Will yield the grey skies' sigh
When
The peninsula pilgrim's
Wing
Yaws and dips and
Sings over
Our Divided Islands:


True Consciousness


Is Emptiness-


The Begin

ning of


This

Uni




Verse.

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