At my table looking long at the rose on the windowpane, dying, and beyond to the new moon and evening star above, in the blue night. Far becomes near all becomes one and the thieves, space and time hide for a moment. There is rest. In this quiet place I know without words that I’ve always been in the soul of the dying rose in the shadow of the new moon in the night of the evening star, and always will be. That is enough.
