Shiva flings creation and destruction
into the black void of Being.
Constellations of ghost words
swirl around his powerful hands.
What is and is not still is in the web
of language. We speak through a mist, a damp,
faceless wall that sections off pastures
of knowledge into marshes and moors.
No one can swim his way out. No one
can muck through the slimy bracken
to forge a trail to the birth of the cosmos.
The Yes and No of existence echo together.
We hear them behind us. We reign in front
of the wisdom of the sage, of the prophet,
of the poet whose sublime expression pierces
the armor of the banal, lathered in excess.
The fruit of our intellect is to know that something
must happen. We cling to it, a sliver of meaning,
the nebula of this is that, the eternal metaphor,
the soundless word, the invincible black hole.
And so the world begins and ends in holy disarray.