Om

A breath, and then another,
and within the pause,
a thousand lives gone by -

It could not be explained to me.
Words, leaves, going by,
going by so quickly, so fragile -

caught up in the breeze.
A tree stands separate from all,
neither from or of the others -

not of wisdom, light, or words.
A thought remains in blossom,
It cannot ever be free -

but it is chained to the rivers.
Sunlight assayed forth,
in the form of golden flowers -

for a chance to play in life.

There was an endlessly still form of life,
It was a fractal that kept on repeating.
A language, needing no translation.
Shrinking, never terminating, increasing.
Never learning or growing, yet never ceasing
to learn or grow.
Never ceasing yet never existing.
Never being confused yet never straying from truth.
Never becoming more simple, yet never increasing.

The spark of creativity is that which does not need to be recognized as creative.
The spark of love is that which never dies.
The spark of truth is that which cannot be extinguished.
The spark of light is that which is conscious.
The spark of life is the fleeting, fragile, beautiful, finite, infinite play of the eternal and infinite soul.