Swept aside; moments and celestial movements collide
And waste no never-mind for credence and retention
In the wake of greater cosmic rinds and supine moot reflection.
Mortality lies; not so, what histories provide
But in the daily interaction of missives from the Goal
And penultimate illunga * of the Source or
Sanctions of reaction to the triad of coarser
Ores of time, space, and matter. Time, an active order within the folds
Of space; space, the arena of experience within the heart
Of the observer; matter, phenomena in the passive
And reactive shadow of Creation and its antithesis. Simplicity is massive,
Complexity’s absurd; the question’s languages are art
And science while those of answers gloat on pathos and the abstract.
What is more pathetic than to be and yet be nothing in the act?
*The word is illunga, from the Bantu language of Tshiluba, and means a person ready to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time.
His Holiness The Buddha