The blue light of twilight
Would not let me go back
To bed and chase dreams
The leaves of the bodhi tree
Stood still like a painting
Etched against the sky
That could not let go of the night
The stillness so filled the empty cup
That words refused to rush
To describe what was felt
The stillness turned into slow motion
Like high birds floating on air
Without any murmur or whisper
The light brightened reluctantly
As the silent red orb appeared
Through the tangle of still buildings
The cup emptied again and was filled
What moves not, is not in vain
What moves, moves, not in vain.
