The Waiting Room
Young the child who caught my sight,
old his eyes intense and bright.
Long we stared sitting there;
consciousness awake, aware.
Names were called. He was gone.
I looked into space beyond.
That which had remained unseen,
background to this waking dream,
forward moved immense and strong,
overtook the waiting throng.
Those who seemed alive and real
faded into this force field.
Transparent ghosts of movements slow
spoke in whispers hushed and low.
What is alive is not the form.
No one dies, and no one's born.
Names are given. Names are called.
Life lives not in names at all.