For we are love,
anything I do must be of,
from, for, and is born of this,
Unless this child is lost.
If by chance this fool does anything,
from some smaller place,
the suffering is truly mine,
against my true nature,
from the mind steeped and chained,
mans machine of pain and poverty.
So far from the deep wood mist
Scarlet dawn flared dragonfly wings
The rising miracle of all things
As I sit, sunlight on my face gently kissed.