I don't think it's done...

...but I wanted to write it, O Best Beloved, before I lost the dream.

Mystery flees,
    pursued 
  by the heavy hand of knowledge.
        The wonder of life,
     dissected, explained,
a hundred pages, a thousand, 
                   a library
              of words.
Mystery is fled.

I have held in my hands secrets,
       hearts unbeating and unbroken, 
    the very things of our being,
            weighed the measure of a man
      and found it not light.
                    But what then remains?

It is in the unfurling fingers
        and discovered hands,
              the cry and laughter of innocence -
   beyond the books,
        sharper than scalpels 
               and more real than I.

Mystery flees,
      and leaves itself behind.
                NsB 05-Sep-03 "jaheim"