Garden of Sophia !

My dear; 

said Epicurus-

standing in the pillars, 

beside-

the great city of samos;

looking at my eyes, 

gazing me in himself, 

he said, 

the art of living well;

and the art of dying well

are One. 

the Athenian wind, 

carried me away

into devotion-

over virtue- besides 'Sophia'

reciprocity follows, 

your departure, 

into that, which man desires, 

pleasures & bliss, 

into 'ataraxia'

consciousness, 

driving itself says, 

of dead words;

"non sum, non curo"

'I am not, I do not care"

but willing he follows, 

those caskets, 

of just & might, 

resonated- into body & mind, 

I look into Epicurus, 

in silent play, 

and say:

my dear, 

how wrong could you be ?