Oh, bird of my soul, fly away now, For I possess a hundred fortified towers.
The wound is the place where the Light enters you.
The ground submits to the sky and suffers whatever comes. Tell me, is the Earth worse for giving in like that?
No longer a stranger, you listen all day to these crazy love-words. Like a bee you fill hundreds of homes with honey, though yours is a long flight from here.
Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
I want your sun to reach my raindrops, so your heat can raise my soul upward like a cloud.