Song of the Sweet Unmanifest

The Void is perfect happiness.
But manifesting is fun.
Is there a problem here?

Just don't confuse
What never changes
With what ever dissolves.

The bud has no idea
What a petal is.
The apple is born

From the tears of a flower.
Seed, blossom, fruit,
Yet no little "me..."

Just a wild becoming.
Now the juices bubble
In the sun.

The worm appears.
Then all that remains
Is the hole.

Yet we need holes to fill
With breath and music.
Dear friend, through all

These perishing forms
Flows the sweetest sap.
Taste That

In what vanishes.
Call it sorrow.
Call it joy.