In the least probable space,
time unfolds in the most peculiar ways
to prove the theory of relativity
with the shy paradigm of random patterns
who ignore each other and yet are distant kin
sharing clear resemblances.
Down at a corner,
where no glance falls on purpose,
nor any foot dwells more than a moment
at the crossroads of nowhere and nothing,
all secrets and mysteries of the world lie still.
And the brooms of inconspicious matrons
that sweep them clean for centuries on end,
in another pattern of pilling layers,
prove the theory of relativity
and the theory of continued fractions
and basically the theory of everything.
Down there, with the occasional cockroach.