Tuesday, June 9, 2015

Broken Green

We die every moment with its sliver and then are born again the next moment. What dies inside us is born again. Maybe what died was a lily and next moment it blooms as a weed so green that the eyes hurt. A green of a broken soda bottle half buried in a forsaken backyard. But the glass blooms in a moment that is forever. That bloom moment that gave it its green. And then the atoms close their eyes hearing themselves being crunched under a tank, a brick or a red stiletto. The merry crunch is born. Crunch of a wound, of detachment of impermanence that is the only constant.

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