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#Poem – Art / 05.10.18

At the beginning of time
Which has no beginning
There was born an artist.
And in every incarnation,
In every rebirth
It struggled to realise its ultimate work.

A cell that deals in exponents, excretion and respiration
Crowding the surface of a petri dish,
A hundred thousand ants, stacking rice grains perfectly,
A bird with the most beautiful feathers
And the most graceful song,
Soil parting beneath the hooves of a horse,
A man enslaved by the muses
Waiting by his guitar,
The Gods in Heaven
At odds or in conspiracy.

This vision of slow completion
Gradually comes about
Amidst a universe of countless and uncountable things.

At the beginning of time
Which has no beginning
There was born an artist.
And for every iota of every aeon
It will work
Until the entropic timer has run down
And all the art has gone from the universe.

Photo by 705847 (Pixabay)

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