there is a subtle unicorn who whispers to me in the dawn.
she comes in quietly by sunbeam and rests on my eyelids
which open to the smell of sunday warmth--
tasting like a whole life encapsulated in tomorrow's past,
as if seen from a great height.
i am soaked with the feeling that everything which has come before
was a prelude to this one sunrise.
but not merely a prelude, for every past sunrise too
is itself the whole of creation.
you see it is an infinite parade of endless beginnings,
each one weaving its own harmony into the Raga of Becoming,
which a unicorn is now singing softly into my ear