# Rested Light I don't know what weariness is anymore— the kind that settles in the bones, that makes a man bend like wheat in wind. I've forgotten the weight of my own shoulders, how they used to carry the day like a stone wrapped in cloth. Now light comes to rest on my eyelids, not demanding, not urgent, but gentle as a hand that knows when to stop touching. The world still turns. Clocks still tick. But I've learned to sit still in the turning, to let the hours pass like clouds that don't need my permission to move. There's a quietness in this— not the silence of absence, but the silence of something complete, something that has said all it needed to say and now simply breathes. I think this must be what peace tastes like: the absence of the need to become, the presence of what already is. The light rests. So do I. And in that resting, we understand each other without words, without reason— just two things, tired and true, finally still.

The secrets of the sea are forgotten on the beaches,
the darkness of the seabed dissolves in foam.
The corals glow in the purple of memory...
Oh, don't be troubled...
Listen carefully as she begins...

You touched the tree hung with apples,
your hand opened, and the thread points the way, leading you...
Oh, dark tremor at root and branch,
if only you were the one to bring back the forgotten dawn!

In the plain of separation, for roses to bloom again, for days to unfold ripe,
in the arms of the sky,
to shine in eyes that have been retouched—only those pure souls
written like the songs of the waves...

Was it the night that closed his eyes?
It lingers unresolved, as though
from some transfigured nerve, there remains a drowned murmur,
ash and vertigo in the black spiral
and a dense flutter held within conjecture's door.

Rose of the wind,
you knew us but took us unknown
while the calculus summoned itself to knit our fingers
and cross two degrees
and spill into the low and rested light.