Moon at Half Past Noon

The spark of life, from silent dust now grown,
A fragile breath, a complex, beating whole;
A love that seeks a good not of its own,
A sacred call that answers from the soul.
And consciousness, the mind’s own inner light,
That wonders at the world it can perceive;
The sense of blue, the darkness of the night,
A truth that mere machinery can’t achieve.
These three entwined, a braided, golden thread—
The fact of being, choice to sacrifice,
The waking thought inside a mortal head—
Proclaim a world beyond the cold and precise.
So life and love and conscious mind combine
To speak a proof of purpose all divine.