This Is It

The foolish speak as if they have arrived.
Where going? runs through the wise.
The sunrise
The moonrise
The stars,
Are in a flash
For they are bright,
All bright.
Under all of this shining mass,
Is the clamor of voices,
Is no answer
But brimming with answers
Fired by a flash of light followed for its brightness.
Yet what flashes, also fools;
But what’s foolish, is human.

Not words but a song to grow into.
That song, from something else;
That picture, is borderless;
That’s it.