Between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act, falls the shadow.
When life brims over time’s cup
things spill into Someday,
a happening fraught with hazard,
a subtle betrayal of dharma.
Things are put aside, fade away,
die aborting truth, struggling.
They stream rivers of regret,
(much as willow trees willow),
or weave cobwebs that kill
without thought of death.
But cunning, not easy to place,
everywhere on the prowl
of day and of night, on its face
benign, fools the unwary.
It plays down every capax dei,
and the horrors of falsehood,
offering few hints of its own.
When a seer finally rises,
sums, and realizes to the full,
the unfulfilled becomes Pretext.
The put-aside, only half-asleep,
sensing infinity in the offing,
conceives of Someday,
unalive as a frozen seed.
Fnding no response on the dot,
room is found for another time.
Redeeming the moment, the future
is engaged, tomorrow is kept safe,
secure, on hold, a fine waiting place
for readiness when the time comes.
Creating Someday, peace is born
in a dwelling outside speculation,
a sorry substitution of Truth,
but a future constantly evolving.
Driven to ourselves time after time
in death’s shadow, resolute obstacles,
sufferings that rend, a force insists
relentlessly. We, the anima mundi,
wonder about this consciousness.
Is Someday a stand-in for endlessness?
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