Not close by every day

These days I've forgotten how to be simple and natural.
All manner of adornment. In the bright effort of exteriors
I desperately hide the dimming of my heart. All harmony
unprepared at every step. In fate's empty mockery
how hard it is to return to life's simple faith.

The everyday is not near. In future and in past
I see the death of the everyday. This alone is the final consolation—
in the dim center of confinement, the eternal cannot stand.

When touched by the simple, in the heap of blocked stones
lies the possibility of flowers. The present floats in springs.
In joyful touch adorns itself the dying, withered garden.

The everyday is not near. All is recent illusion.
In the role of the simple, one day I shall transcend it all.