August 24th.

In our infinite universe
coetaneous rituals of life and death
transpire: by unique congregation
you celebrated birth and I was destined to die,
a mere flicker from cosmic spheres,
caprice of a callous universe.

Our date, shielded by seven keys
(concealing treasures, perhaps an enigma).
The days Pope Gregory
updated weeks of the calender with his quill,
veiling valiant deeds or vanities
way back in 17th Century.

Without love nor goodbyes,
in sidereal space steeped with paradoxes.
Were there tears? A smile?
Or was it a mere crossing through ether,
an elliptic movement?
There’s no echo of our transit in the breeze;
I’ll await you in regions of lights
where there’s stillness and peace;
a fusion without dates nor numbers
in calendars of conscious lives.
Joyful my soul which one day you’ll escort
at the conclusion of our darkest nights.