Why does life have few moments of clarity?
Is life a production, a universal parody?
Why does the moment matter when it will be lost in time, forgotten?
The marrow of life, love, is lost in space among men.
Who can connect the diamonds in the sky to create constellations?
Is everything God's intention, or is all left to interpretation?
Life is a façade, an Indian gift from above.
It is as weightless as a feather of a dove.