With the wind coursing harshly,
Through the tunnels of my mind,
I turn to the street-sweeper and ask:
“What is the meaning of life?
What is the purpose of the universe?”
And as the dream-clouds close in,
And my thoughts crash like thunder,
The street-sweeper answers,
Broom flickering in his hand:
“The universe is not on Mars,
The universe is not on Saturn,
The universe isn’t a distant galaxy.
The universe is here.
The universe is now.
It’s a smile,
A laugh,
A wink,
And a frown,
It’s two young lovers crossing the road,
And a man on the sidewalk without a home.
It’s old friends reminiscing in a cafe,
And kids swinging in a playground,
It’s shoppers rushing around a mall,
And a couple lying down in the park.
But you can’t Google Map their location,
No, the universe isn’t a destination to be found,
Or a problem to be solved.
It simply exists.
A beautiful,
And meaningless,
Monument – to this moment,
And nothing more.
Maybe you are worried it will tumble,
Like a spire collapsing into rubble?
Remember, the universe is
a reflection in a puddle,
So be still and behold,
The kaleidoscope of colour –
A bird-of-paradise is growing in a parking lot,
A young girl crayons the sea onto a concrete slab,
Mahler’s Third sounds golden from a McDonald’s,
A blind man proudly wears a rainbow-coloured hat.
For the landscape of our inner world,
Finds expression on the canvas of the street,
And though our mental walls loom large,
And we dig tunnels far from the light,
We can still create beauty in this moment.
The universe is a painter,
A bricklayer,
A pawn broker,
And a movie-maker.
She’s a cab driver,
An architect,
A midwife,
And an undertaker.
She runs the local flower shop,
And deals in antique bracelets,
Strums guitar on the sidewalk,
And waits on restaurant tables.
In this universe,
Our universe,
There are no real strangers –
For we are all actors on the same stage.
So when a storyline ends,
And a life-song passes,
And a character vanishes behind the veil,
The crowded stage feels empty,
But words can’t express the scale.
The universe, then, is a tear,
A single, sacred tear,
Like a shard of weeping glass,
Or a dream-drop fallen from the sky,
But there is beauty in having loved,
Even if only from dawn to dusk.
Because at the end of the day,
the final day,
When the play of the world has passed,
And the actors have all taken their bows,
The universe will be a street-sweeper,
Cleaning up in the silence,
Alone, beneath a curtain
Of collapsing stars.
Listen to its roar –
The universe is a symphony
of silence,
And then it is no more.
And with that
the street-sweeper
dusted off his broom,
flickered, and was gone.
And the dream-clouds parted,
And the sun shone through.
Soulful Thoughts 