Even If That Is So, There Will

Poetry Is News Brought To The Mountains By A Unicorn And An Echo.

On The Day The World Ends A Bee Circles A Clover, A Fisherman Mends A Glimmering Net.

Religion Used To Be The Opium Of The People. To Those Suffering Humiliation, Pain, Illness, And Serfdom, Religion Promised The Reward Of An After Life. But Now, We Are Witnessing A Transformation, A True Opium Of The People Is The Belief In Nothingness After Death, The Huge Solace, The Huge Comfort Of Thinking That For Our Betrayals, Our Greed, Our Cowardice, Our Murders, We Are Not Going To Be Judged.

Leaves Glowing In The Sun, Zealous Hum Of Bumblebees, From Afar, From Somewhere Beyond The River, Echoes Of Lingering Voices And The Unhurried Sounds Of A Hammer Gave Joy Not Only To Me. Before The Five Senses Were Opened, And Earlier Than Any Beginning They Waited, Ready, For All Those Who Would Call Themselves Mortals, So That They Might Praise, As I Do, Life, That Is, Happiness.

Forget The Suffering You Caused Others. Forget The Suffering Others Caused You. The Waters Run And Run, Springs Sparkle And Are Done, You Walk The Earth You Are Forgetting. Sometimes You Hear A Distant Refrain. What Does It Mean, You Ask, Who Is Singing? A Childlike Sun Grows Warm. A Grandson And A Great-grandson Are Born. You Are Led By The Hand Once Again. The Names Of The Rivers Remain With You. How Endless Those Rivers Seem! Your Fields Lie Fallow, The City Towers Are Not As They Were. You Stand At The Threshold Mute.