The spring stills and rushes about,
Gushing through thick strands of bamboos,
Glistened spikes protrude to roots,
Dashing a dime there till it darkens,
And the squeals of lone birds land one after the other,
To seek shelter in tranquil mazes,
In the mercy of this eventide,
Where fear pierces those that crave comfort,
Their disdain keeps them housed in warmth, of a certainty
And others, seek light so they rummage through the darkest of places
In spirit, they affirm the long walk in the fading noise,
Faced and defaced by a dawning they yearn.
A spark, a torch, a fire to burn and be burnt.
Scale the scabs and run right back into it.
That spark.
Reformed Pacifist 