- for Benjamin, in the cradle -
You, child, are the tender of swollen moments, heir
to the mute efficacies of silence.
“Is being not a chain of unresolved discords?”
But for you such questions have been posed and answered.
For you, already, same is like to same.
Before you lies a vaguely delimited space,
glowing beneath the brush of a hidden Giotto,
from which you are dreamily foreshortened,
cradled in the arches of life’s proscenium.
Do not fret about the towering precipice.
For now let it be of little concern.
Open your eyes to the gilded appearances
and sway beneath a canopy of measured strings,
serenaded by the humming spheres and
swathed in the light of an invariable moon.
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[Next: The Book of Life]