Gestures Upon The Waves

What is now, will be gone.
What is now, will live again.
And the fight is a mare,
Where it sings no-one knows.

What is said tomorrow,
Is a memory, languidly floating:
It had already been born,
And is re-born through eternity.

A gesture, once of sombre delight
Becomes an embrace of melancholy.
Just as the hands are the same
So is time's recycled face.

Death rocks the womb;
The sparrow wondrously sings.
Love fixes its stare;
The sparrow wondrously sings.

A new beginning
Is the latest repetition,
Just as the falling leaves re-trace
Their path of descent from yesteryear.

No waves could remember
A thousand past dawns,
But the dawn rising
Is itself a remembering.

The mud passing through
The fading gutters, after
The lamenting yellow rain
Is a prophecy of what's been.

So who could say
He who points backwards
Into the future, is mad?
Ceres sows by reaping.