Every Day You Play With The Light

Everything Is Ceremony In The Wild Garden Of Childhood.

Eating Alone Is A Disappointment. But Not Eating Matter More, Is Hollow And Green, Has Thorns Like A Chain Of Fish Hooks, Trailing From The Heart, Clawing At Your Insides. Hunger Feels Like Pincers, Like The Bite Of Crabs; It Burns, Burns, And Has No Fur. Let Us Sit Down Soon To Eat With All Those Who Haven't Eaten; Let Us Spread Great Tablecloths, Put Salt In Lakes Of The World, Set Up Planetary Bakeries, Tables With Strawberries In Snow, And A Plate Like The Moon Itself From Which We Can All Eat. For Now I Ask No More Than The Justice Of Eating.

I Have Been A Lucky Man. To Feel The Intimacy Of Brothers Is A Marvelous Thing In Life. To Feel The Love Of People Whom We Love Is A Fire That Feeds Our Life. But To Feel The Affection That Comes From Those Whom We Do Not Know, From Those Unknown To Us, Who Are Watching Over Our Sleep And Solitude, Over Our Dangers And Our Weaknesses – That Is Something Still Greater And More Beautiful Because It Widens Out The Boundaries Of Our Being, And Unites All Living Things.

Where Were You Then? Who Else Was There? Saying What? Why Will The Whole Of Love Come On Me Suddenly When I Am Sad And Feel You Are Far Away?

The Word Was Born In The Blood, Grew In The Dark Body, Beating, And Took Flight Through The Lips And The Mouth. Farther Away And Nearer Still, Still It Came From Dead Fathers And From Wondering Races, From Lands Which Had Turned To Stone, Lands Weary Of Their Poor Tribes, For When Grief Took To The Roads The People Set Out And Arrived And Married New Land And Water To Grow Their Words Again. And So This Is The Inheritance; This Is The Wavelength Which Connects Us With Dead Men And The Dawning Of New Beings Not Yet Come To Light.