EverFlower

I asked myself today this senseless question: how it might look a weave of time in the shape of a flower... like a representation of a terrible beauty that never ends, a hellish unbearable immortal beauty, ab aeternum, immanent to the very essence of everything, not allowing the mind to proper focus in life, perpetually insomniac, persecuting an aberration of the purity, like an endless hunting of moby dick... burning defects into a hell of uncertainty... but not... not quite like that: just travelling time as with insomniac eyes drown in all the stars of the sky.

A weave of time and lives into eternity making the shape of a flower. How it would look?

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They alway must be with us, or we die.

[...]

John Keats, (fragment of) "Endymion", book I.