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.

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