I am not a pursuer, nor a traveller,
I am not a goal, but a narrow track,
I am not a harvest, but a thunder-bolt,
Born to set fire to straw.., buried in the dust.
Seperation
The sun is weaving with golden thread
A mantle of light about earth's head;
Creation hushed in ecstasy,
As in the presence of the Most High.
What can these know-stream, hill, moon,
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