The Harrow In The Midst
Through many lives, a soul goes
in search for its deepest marsh. The narrow; for that wheel-a life
spent training, in the midst. Points to the unseen self-
Crouched like two wood elves—
dozing. Blind as the fool's heart.
Makes a thing and then goes,
changing. He strikes!
Only when the timber start. With all the air,
And, more than that. He strikes on, without a counterpart.
Till, his mood changes, and boils.
For, Looking up aware—somehow grew.
For the true things' sake. A voice less loud, I hear. Where-in am, I to cast?
Where-in am, I to lie? Of flesh and bone.
Ye must, to rapture, call. And,
Passion to dust, will hold mine,
Yet, How strange it were,
shall life live beyond. The we, hath favored one.
First the parts, much the whole. The all! It was ever so since the world began. A soul lifted its hand.
To hold mine yet, When you thought of me,
And, I thee. As, I hold all you, with eyes
as dear. I follow knowing well the leaders hand
The main mast of his ship. And, I follow where I am led. Lesser fear extinction, but
doubtless thee immortal. Live long and happy.
Dread no wrong, for being beloved Unwittingly— Eager to join itself—its
wild heart. Aft the mark be hit full center.
Love, this, his precious gift.