The ripeness of the fruit he beheld
In his hands together with maturity blend
The Seven Perfections of his soul
Make his imperfections wider known.
And count the blessings of the days
Melted like fire, shell and stone
And ripped the Heavens, torn apart
And gushed down the rain and torrent floods
Rippling the Earth on its shaky axis
Upon the Richter the numbers were infinitely lost
To the other assumptions of the world
To the material affectations of hearts bleeding asunder.
A solitary man on the edge of the world
And the ghosts of forces beyond and unknown
Is a frightening thing.
One- for clarity in its imminent omnipresence
The vision of One for future restrictions. Openness.
Two- for loving kindness bred of a gentle seedling
Planted in the solid soil of redemption.
Three- for equanimity in all relative things
Big and small, engendered with breathy longing
The wayward traveller seeks for his path of treasure.
Four- for detrimental beauty of equitable stature
The fleeting glimpses of naiads, burning with desire
The begrudging celestial body sparked mankind’s envy.
Five- for humour unaffected by worries of nature
Lightened through hazes of miraculous deceptions.
Six- for generosity dreamed up from cloudy smoke
For want of giving within the means of necessity.
Seven and all- for frankness of speech and redemption
For brilliance unrivalled by the pennies of dogma
For dreams of an untouched, unaffected heart.
The making of physical existence, countenance flushed
Was single-handedly atoned by a slattern-ish soul
Whose leaf had overturned the dreariness of lonesoneness?
The Seven Perfections they may be
And in themselves
Lie the Imperfections which make him whole.
