Beneath the clamor flows

the language of the senses,

primal, preverbal,

speaking in tongues of green, of

earth, of wind, of water. Come

stand in the river and forget all the

stories you have ever been told. For a

time, the torrent will be troubling. Find joy in

the grief for it is of mercy and providence.

Once having been washed of an

old way, turning now to

awakening, thoughts

will writhe in dissonance,

sentiments now drifting

homeless, hands busy with not

enough to keep mind and heart from

sparring. Soul! bay as the wolf, with

eyes shining red and hollow in

new light. Walk silent along the

tundra of humility, where no one

knows there burns a fire

we call the throes.

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