Who can suppose the head
To be made from empty space,
But the spine from vital instincts
And the edgebone from fear of death?
Who knows how death and birth,
Living on and disappearing,
Compose the one bodily mystery? . .
I would be friends with him.
If my spine were to be transformed
Into a wheel axis and my spirit into a pair
Of fire steeds, I should then be mounting it
And would not change it for another light chariot.
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well done
ones here on the den...that is why I read and
comment, Alex.
Always,
Deborah