May it be like the writhing of snakes in its passion,
and the meeting of doves breasts in its tenderness,
stronger than the forest cedar,
as flexible as the rope that hangs.
Burning all the dark matter away
and freezing perfection in mind's eye
Eternal: but a breath
Dying: yet more awake.

Every seasons pains;
growing and fading,
and giving to flight,
to fight and fight always
for that simple action
of kiss and embrace.
For which we race, flaming across the sky.