That which we propagate we see
Like the spark at the tip of the
tongue
Of a song or a dance which our lives depend on.
The ashes that breeze through the air
From a fire made in a lonely corner of the world
Disseminate through
the passageways
Of those who wish to hear this song.
Here, the firelight bathes us
And our eyes are gilded like the breath of a dying man.
We
rejoice in the knowledge that our hearts yearn for more
And time, that blanket to which we yield all our dreams
Lifts us into the rose where we may rest
And breathe deep the fragrance
that carries with it
The dreams of forgotten days.
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