The Foam That Flows from the Mouth of Wild Boars

Not the same shape in changing light
But different shapes in the same light
In the same light that penetrates everything

There is no being behind doing
Only fiction added to the deed
The cold ashes of a dead fire

The locked prison of the moment
A great door through which there is no passage
All roads disgorge to black decay

In the highest circle
Mystery reigns over ambiguity
And the frail light of the intellect goes out pitifully

The agony and despair of spreading bones
The foam that flows from the mouths of wild boars
The wheel that hurtles down toward emptiness
The naked flayed head without a face