EDEN

It is all a rhythm 

from the shutting 

door, to the window 

opening,

the seasons, the sun's

light, the moon, 

the oceans, the 

growing of things,

the mind in men

personal, recurring 

in them again,

thinking the end 

is not the end, the 

time returning,

themselves dead but 

someone else coming.

If in death I am dead,

then in life also 

dying, dying...

And the women cry and die.

The little children 

grown only to old men.

The grass dries,

the force goes.

But is met by another 

returning, oh not mine,

not mine, and 

in turn dies.

The rhythm which projects 

from itself continuity 

bending all to its force,

from window to door,

from ceiling to floor,

light at the opening,

dark at the closing.

by Robert Cleeley

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