The human part
of our soul
has its seasons.

We are fruits
ripe for a moment,

until our next
glorious shape
is molded from us.

Death is
not an end
to anything,

except to
habitual minds,
stuck in a pattern.

A limited
perspective
of reality ends,

but we are not
a perspective.

We are that
which observes

the multitude
of perspectives.

We are the
suprahuman being.

The being
that is beyond,

and before,

the thought
of being human.