Mandala

A million grains of sand,

All balanced on one another.

Whenever I move one, 

It disturbs all the others.

If I cannot be perfect,

Then all I am is but a lie.

But where is what is straight

In the world I'm to depict?

If my mind is to be my world,

Then let me become like it;

A flow of ever shifting dunes,

That let them float into the wind.

Let me give up to surrender,

And yet I cannot do it.

Pray defeat me soon,

That this war be over yet!

Let me fail this time,

Before I think I'm done,

And presume that I contain,

All there is within abstraction.