This is contact with myself…
inner contact…
where the parts of a woman’s identity
stop arguing
and exist as one whole.
inner contact…
where the parts of a woman’s identity
stop arguing
and exist as one whole.
Something massive and soft…
deep, without measure…
opens itself
to what is rigid and aggressive,
absorbs the sharp and the raw,
embraces all colours and all textures…
deep, without measure…
opens itself
to what is rigid and aggressive,
absorbs the sharp and the raw,
embraces all colours and all textures…
Everything folds
into the tight light of an inner sun…
and begins to move…
slowly…
like a large snail
with its own small house of identity…
into the tight light of an inner sun…
and begins to move…
slowly…
like a large snail
with its own small house of identity…
Under the moon…
in cold light…
among fresh dew
the path of the self begins to shine…
a slow snail
moving along the slope of the Mountain of Life…
in cold light…
among fresh dew
the path of the self begins to shine…
a slow snail
moving along the slope of the Mountain of Life…
It moves
so that one day
it may become a drop of rain,
ash,
or a thread of spider silk…
and fly away…
carried by the wind…
so that one day
it may become a drop of rain,
ash,
or a thread of spider silk…
and fly away…
carried by the wind…
