And do you talk about the hill
While going on the climb,
Or does your tongue lie frozen still
Within the mouth of time?
The reason’s neither love nor gold,
And neither hate nor dross,
But lying like the bitter cold
Upon a bed of moss.
And all the forms are one, tonight,
And yet they can’t be “one”;
They’re not unlike the nothing light
Which shines from sun to sun.
And, through the middle of it all,
There runs an all-embracing wall.
Photo by 231 PROJECT on Unsplash
Enigma?
