they say it in the quiet hour, whispering: there is a flower.
in almost all the worlds it’s red as rising mercury is tinted, red as [s]lips would flush to whisper all the words at which eyes’ glints have hinted. for this reason some say it is echoed in our [p]rose, but among those who’ve counted petals it is known this joint is jilting—for of the flowers in our eon, roses are most known for wilting.
red, then, is its color, and its petals bright with life. in their prism moves a light, sun split by crystal’s knife: this we call attention or atman or attraction, and where its gleaming course began is hidden by its riot of refractions. through petals and petals and petals it pulses, expanding and strengthened and multiplied by moves it makes a-mazing, fed by all who make prayer of presence, irrespective of the [thunder|number]ed names they profess to be praising.
for where’s a there beneath each stare, when every then is wound and bound into the now of this, the pres[ci]ent mo[re]me[a]nt, we translate what is rendered by the tongues of those who’ve tendered their service to totem or taste or t[h]rice-treasured torment:
in the mists, pre[da]terite, a crimsonnet uncurled—Jantastigranantalam, the flower of all worlds.