Beneath the skin of the world,
there are names no lips have touched in centuries.
They linger in the mouths of ghosts,
curl in the spaces between prayers.
What do we call the ones
who have outlived even memory?
Perhaps nothing.
Perhaps that is the final death.

It's no wonder
at all
unless you are
in the picture
being an integral part thereof

otherwise
all that is
is incomplete
just a distant view
of speculation
of conjecture-
without the grandeur-

we are each
part of others
and of nature-
only in coming together
is the oneness
the fullest realisation
the sublimest rapture
the matchless splendour!