Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Half of love
Half of brothers
Half of maybe
And their mothers
One of north
One of south
One of always
Hand to mouth
Two of truth
Two of lies
Two of noise
And lonesome cries
Three of birth
Three of rites
Three of time
To fly their kites
