In the muddy puddle
the white reflection
of the slender spring moon
~
الشمعة المحترقة
بشراهة تأكل
وجه الظلام
~
Birds of passage…
over the withered field
the silence of the fog
-
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Rooted in Love 
You will always have the feel of the old foreign romantics to your writing. Beautiful Pierre.
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Yes I will, that is who I am. I am growing less foreign to myself in that identity, wearing the skin, wearing the effulgence of that light as it finds its way through me, out of me, like a lover’s moan wet with the dew of dawn. I love who I am, and I sing the praise of this becoming, of this decadent earth that enables flowers so white to bloom and thoughts to pure to gain root and flourish. Skyward, whiteward, always that way my sweet friend.
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