| This fleeting autumn shows its quarrelsome temper, teased with golden, but left us red leaves, squeezed in cold hand of wind with parchment faces, with wrinkles of losses, the chronicles, written in world sanctuary by time's scribe in ancient script 10 lives ago by ...me being oracle - now recognizing no symbol, nonsense, only feels in the veins vague desire to stars, to nature, story telling beacon, like native with naive characters inventive, but broken, holding the trust in me, the oracle. Hopes, believes and stories - cascading as brooks between hills, through the hurdles to bring the purity of healing arts, and ancient credo: to heal with clear hearts | |||
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