I gladden as my knees touch concrete;
generations have spurned this moment,
while I have waited.
Brick by bark and stick,
trees whose uselessness constitutes a design principle
demand ears ready to accept innumerable branches.
I, eureka, am bound to try to see;
specificities have dissolved generosity,
while my eyes gave up trying to feel.
Contact; a something came into earshot:
it's green, around a corner, and was
written three thousand years ago.
When an essence effervesces,
I smell oil.
As senescence lights regresses,
all's well and foiled.
Roman Ryan 