When the new Sun rises
And hatred is failed away
When one person's life will stop
Be an object of the trade

When we dream together of
Cruelties as stamps of sorrow
Them our hands will push away
As blank shadows of tomorrow

When we see as if one eye
Guides our free and loving minds
In the land of waving flowers
Yellow sands and clear blue sky

In this world
I'm not alone,
And that is often the problem.

come to me, my dear, come to me,
don't let me discover
what I could do without you.

but that handle was made for his hand
hand - handle
handle - hand

the fingers would close
around it to never let go
It had to have flesh around it
at all times
But the blade...
the blade was still naked. He couldn't let
the blade naked
It wasn't fair

"So that's why you stabbed your
mommy then?" the psychiatrist asked him.

"Yes," he said.

"The knife is more important
to you than mommy?"

"The knife listens. Mommy doesn't."

One morning at sunrise,
I walked the beach
Looking for shells.

High on the bank,
Where no wave could reach,
An old man watched intently.

After a while
He gestured with his hand,
Calling me to him.

"You have many lives to live,"
He said (in a strange accent)
As he picked up a handful of sand
And let it run back to the ground
Through his fingers.

"That's a lot of lives", I said,
Watching the last of it fall
And trying not to look afraid.

"Not the sand in my hand," he said,
"The sand on the beach."
He extended his arms,
Raised his eyes,
Then vanished
Before I could speak.

for

    once,

   i would

love

      to be

         the poem

and

     not

         the poet