I am distinct from all that moves:
No source of motion prowls in my unmoved heart
And the heart of my heart is a garden
Unturned by the plough, rough
And fruitlessly fruitful.
It is beyond its ken.
The wings of thought
Pass over its stillness,
Leaving no shadow.
It rests in the silence of chimes
And the peace of sleep;
When the world winks
At the sun to bathe
In drooping gauze
And lotion’s aloe,
it is a balm,
A cooling balm.
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