The silver shadow in my breath is a foreshadow of my death. I know, I accept, I cry, I die.
I long to rest inside a flower. With my burning fingers, I yearn to touch the delicate smooth marble inside the petals. I can imagine the gentle caress of the burbling bubbles of early morning dew drops, languidly rolling down my forehead. I feel the tickle of pollen in my nostrils, and I sneeze, letting go of the agitation and confusion of the mortal show on a gigantic stage of conditioning and collective bravado, the jamboree of the ego.
My senses awaken and I hear, smell, see and touch the quickening vibration of chi. I feel the feathers of my beloved crows rustling in my chest and I swallow my unfounded fears doing my best. I breathe the scent of harmony of the Cosmos flower, which only grows to Silver, in the last hour - the infinite possibilities of life-force, the universal gift of self-creation and pollen- power.