Nature weeps an eternal story:
beautiful regeneration after decay.
It tells the tale of humanity,
in the most unabashed way.
Translation is held, laughing above,
A reefed night blooming with light
Like the child’s eye.
Or maybe a mastered kiss,
Like the setting sun.
Tell me a love story,
and tell it to me like you still believe
in something called “A Memory.”
Wealth is the disease,
Privilege, the symptom.
A fire cannot burn,
a river whose earth meets the wind
which begot the flame.
DO NOT call me a “stranger” if you haven’t tried talking to me either.
Try to see people as artists; love the expressions innate in them.