Poets, akin to transcendental philosophers,
Perceive an unbroken thread, a cosmic seam,
Infinite unity in the fabric of existence's dream.
Could a creator divide this indivisible stream,
As Dawn reveals the fool, in glorious gleam?

What of art without belief in divinity's sway,
Or the eternal beauty that never fades away?
Perhaps it's through art a child finds its way,
Connecting spirit to spirit in a dance of play.

Eternal grace, tender and wise,
Restoring illusions, as pity's guise.
Yet beneath the projection, the form, the disguise,
Temporal sorrows awaken, longing to rise.

Is it in Non-Ego that Ego finds its sight,
Crafting from eternity, into perpetual light.
From everlasting to everlasting, in radiant flight,
The manifest meets the eternal, evanescent, bright.