in the late phase of his life he would seen that, even though, all left behind, we would carry on this, amongst all this, we would take and carry on this. we would somehow know the truth, we would know towards what to cling to when times get tough again
forsaken yet not, climber, a stranger, a forward-moving pace. dance towards the light of the campfire on a lone mountain-top. reach the heights of the silent wisdom, move, until you have nothing left but your last breath.
fooled by every little sign, this could be it, no this, what is it? a dance of the tops of the trees, the winds and the leaves and the movement of the lonely water of the dark blood
hand me your papers and i will do something with them
Kommentaare ei ole:
Postita kommentaar