Rest in Peace, my sweet friend, Kasha.
Nothing is beyond passing.
The grass fades, as do our days.
Even the Sun will cast its final ray.
And you could say, that this way
of things is a matter of mortality,
of loss, of fatality; but how could it be
that all morphs and molds if it weren’t
for the foundation of endless forms
upon which we are all formed.
And what other than the formless
could possibly contain all forms?
Guide us through phases, born and reborn?
Is our mortality, our malleability, not our link to infinity?
Is death not the most eternal part of our being?
Is this changing way not the essence of our limitless freedom?
No thing is beyond passing; ay, all things are eternal.
My friend, life is the brush of the wind rolling
over a rambling meadow of seeds, sprouts and stalks,
as a youthful calf grazes its way across a field of green and gold.
