We lie staring upwards
as the shapes traverse
the painted rafters
of our universe,
the lamp behind us,
our eyes in shade.
As the tungsten sings,
the shapes parade
in clockwise motion,
against the turning earth.
In the west, deceasing,
at the east, in birth,
the icons of our life
evoke our sun.
Inside the lantern's bulb
everything is one.
Life is not a shadow,
it is a fugitive light.
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