We living ones are feeling beings,
meeting all the other things.
We taste the brook, the soup, the dust;
We bud, we bloom, at last we crust.
A mind depends on change in time
to feel what clashes, & what rhymes.
From birth one has an inner flame,
enough to play just this one game.
Your body dies & takes your soul;
The living play your rock & roll.
& what you feel, & what you tell
may one day be a gushing well.