Signalling hours of calming begets,
in quiet times, a louder redress
as you walk out the room, trowel in hand
to lay some new mortar, the building commands
new casting, outlasting due writing on plaster:
mene mene tekel upharsin, the final larson
in an era of Upanishads, of monad’s pardon
for the coming that went, our lasting warden.