At the cliff lip of Jimbaran, observationing,residing in split seconds,inside the Angin Laut,here, horizon bites, chews then swallows the sun;the Barong and Rangda of my many moments, I,a vessel decidedly undecided,unhappily finished, triumphantly undone.

What could be more deafening than the vastness of searepeating rhythms of waves crashing inaudibly,while motionless fishing boats drift fast in still grace,like the Truth in never-thoughts the mind fears to chase.

Below awaits Baruna, singing coral's muted hymn,while kris-light shivers translucently on the water’s slinky rim;Legong currents, robed in a ceremonial spin,turn circles around the stillness they guard within.

And here, the sea-nymphs, bare-breasted in light,half-born of spindrift, half-inked in the night,their gaze a recursion of promise and ache,where desire folds back on its own solemn wake.

For indulgence repeats till its flavor turns slight,the gold in its moments sharply dulled into white;yet in the curve of the wave and the dissipation of flamedo the pulse and the meter remain steadfast, the same.

And the fireball descends anew, as it always has done—each setting the first, each first passed, gone.In this, the temple of repeat, does the altar hold shape,though each day’s incense burns in a different scented drape.

Amid those grave novelties that we seek to repeat—the fever of night, the salt-amber heat—all that astonishment moors, must it anchor and stayin the patient berth of the unchanging day.

Here I standwhere the Angin Laut keeps no measure of years,where the will of the tide neither bends nor veers,and I loose the bright fever from the grasp of my hands,as the sea folds my pulse into its eternal commands.