Underneath it all, the source of
light shines, not curtailed by
the lack of translucence,
the minimalism
of humanistic praises
leading only
to walls
blocking divinity.

Underneath it all, the widow still grieves,
the child wanders, the willows bow, and night
falls. There in the darkness, we stand, notwithstanding,
the clocks... hallowed spinning, the crops... ever growing,
the sweetness,
of loss.

Underneath it all,
life falters, insists, perseveres, and vibrates, while
above,
motion halts.