Tuesday, November 30, 2010


Don't listen to anything I say.
I must enter the center of the fire.

Fire is my child, but I must be consumed
and become fire.

Why is there crackling and smoke?
Because the firewood and the flames
are talking to each other.

You are too dense. Go away.

You are too wavering.
I have solid form.

In the darkness those friends keep arguing.
Like a wanderer with no face.

Like the most powerful bird in existence
sitting on its perch, refusing to move.