How much time do we waste in this way?
With this wish to be penniless, free?
I am feeling these, the confines of the spirit, so I must give in.
To this scene: of a boy in a sandbox, now playing,
His castle is drying to wind.
He thinks that time belongs to him,
That time does not annihilate according to its ancient will.
He stands in the box, his palms out, the loud wind passing over his fingers.
Within his small fingers, the granules of pleasure.
Within his small pleasure, the granules of need.
Let us slake this mind to nothingness,
This body, then to nothingness.
Let us call this the genius of time.
from The Heaven-Sent LeafFind it in the library
Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2008
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