Square. Awakening
Horizontal strokes plummet to hum as strings,
Vertical veins climb to frame a cage—
yet here stands a monastery of light.
A square is no prison, but a wooden ashram
where light seals itself to practice its quiet asceticism;
Awakening is no abrupt epiphany,
but warm eyes that metal, bit by bit, unfolds
in the creases of order.
At every pivot of a straight line,
light lingers, pausing to meditate,
A rhombus is no cage,
but a zafu where light cycles through its rebirths.
