Aligned with his pain
Couldn’t help but tire the moon,
The herbs and the fruits,
And all living things with juice.
With handing deliverance
Was squeezing a handful of dirt
Into a passionate hum.
From his face a stream of tears,
Down to the very last strum.
Yet he carries on,
Fishing out tinners and clinkers
From the lake, he’s the flinkest.
The lake that rustles and whispers,
The lake that sings him a song:
“Where thou findest, thou belongst.”