As the great cycles whir
You hear a scratching. That is your
Counterpoint to cosmic motion.
You pebbles underfoot in ocean.

There is no coda to worldmusic
Just caesura after movement.
You clutch your head, anew, now sick
Of leitmotifs both grand and vehement.

Scratch the surface. Just that scratching
Lends the smallness of a hatching:
Roundness of an incarnation.
Flamelet rousing self once ashen.