Author Information
"Somethings Aren't Like Others"
Cast
Iron into salt
Burnt virgin blossoms melt
Behind orange curtains
A young finch cries
But no one hears
If one has ears
Listen
If one has eyes
Look
There must be something more
Than this
If you cleave a piece of wood
Or turn over a stone
Will you find yourself?
What's behind the face
That feels?
That hurts?
That realizes?
All things
Shall end
The beginning of it all
Is in fact the last
It will be like
The first night
Of the stones
All shall be in all
A risen
Tomorrow
Which
Will never let go
