Where she lay, we trod,
And from her breast, the sun pulls,
everything green towards him.
It is her adoration that he pulls.
The wind - a silent friend - twirls her faith. And even in silence, their upturned faces and out of shaped bodies lean towards him in fervent worship.
At last, they burst out as golden flames and fall back into her heart.
There is a forest inside her ready to erupt if you let her. And even if you don't let her.
It is man's ignorance to think that we can control her.
When first we must become greater than the sun.
When the sun dies, we wait eagerly for tiny light beams like whispered prayers,
To float between the leaves and brambles and light our paths ahead.
