Delicate, exotic, the strange orchid entrances the mind
With colours and curves that twist dimensions.
The eye, deceived, deluded, turns the tormented vision
Inwards to infinity.
And there, in the depths, lost in the darkness
Of flowing forms, one ceaselessly searches
The meaning of existence.
And echoes sound from a Bach fugue, a Mozart quartet,
A Van Gogh, whose irises ape the orchid,
Demanding that syncretism solve the enigma.
But all is to no avail.
The paradox remains.
All is one. Yet all remains separate.
All is one. One is All, and different.