When the boundary loosens and the world folds in,
I feel the widening that waits beyond breath.
“O breath of the boundless body,
the last hour drifts returning home.”
And something ancient circles under everything,
glowing where the endings gather,
watching from behind the fabric of the sky.
Behind the sky… behind the sky
The fire that does not burn is turning, turning,
round the bones of the world it’s turning.
Every ending glows in the hush it’s earning.
The fire that does not burn is turning.
Turning… turning… the silent blaze is turning
When the ground beneath thought thins to vapor,
I face the blankness that demands all
while offering nothing but its silent stare.
“There is a moment when the ground dissolves,”
the echo warns from the far side of the void,
“and no one else can carry your hour.”
Still the unseen wheel keeps circling,
etching symbols in the dark behind my eyes.
Listen…
There is a place where the sky folds inward,
where the stars lean close as if remembering your shape.
There, the unseen wheel hums beneath the fabric of time,
and the great silence waits with its mouth unbroken.
Step lightly… for the hour that belongs to you alone
is already walking toward you.
The fire that does not burn is turning, turning,
round the bones of the world it’s turning.
Every ending glows in the hush it’s earning.
The fire that does not burn is turning.
Turning… turning…
From the clearing where time gathers itself,
a figure steps out of the wound of truth:
“Being is a wound ever opening,
and the path ends where silence answers.”
I walk toward that trembling threshold,
carrying a question that unravels as I near it,
and the stars tilt their faces toward me
as if waiting for the moment I vanish.
The fire that does not burn is turning, turning,
round the bones of the world it’s turning.
Every ending glows in the hush it’s earning.
The fire that does not burn is turning.
Turning, turning —
Turning, turning — the silent blaze .
the silent blaze turning… turning…
BB
