The Upright Bowl

Man's home is an upright bowl
Of tears and sweat is brimming full
When he walks, he is looking down
Towards its edge is always bound;

Land is flat; man walks the land
Gradually it is all becoming sand
Along the edges where waters sink
His sea is slow becoming ink;

He dreams himself the whole of things
He thinks the same as birds have wings
To fly to the edge of heaven here
His mind is set, should it appear;

No heaven appears, no broken sky
Dome under which the spirits fly
An upright bowl, a sunny dome--
Strange that he should call this home;

Night is dreaming, found unthought
Stars of heaven, with spot on spot
A thousand tales, ten thousand suns
Nights and days, zeroes and ones;

The world is different, the sky is strange
There are more than chairs to re-arrange
Solace appears; but it has a face
Stranger than anything in this place.

Ephrem Antony Gray

Be sure to visit Ephrem's site Symposium of Fire