I Is to Me
The warmth of the hymn, cry hallow and despair, to move on forward, taking chances as they come. A Hunters moon did we see this morning, to bless our passage toward the Day. To begin anew, with thoughts caress; and our humble nature, of now we are reminded. To siphon dry, and to bless with plagues, is to be as a curse; with words as chains. The bind and constrict, yet to release our lover from her beguilement, I know not of jest. To entranced she is, by the pulling of the strings, to twang and wroth, is our most holy thought. To sing and dance, upon the beat and breast of our sitar, is of great delight; to those with terrible fright.