And if it reaches you, my friend, do you
then grasp it in your hands? Do you
curl gentle fingers round
the light that whispers
urgent secrets – ones that
vanish as they spill?

Can you gain comprehension from
the touch that feathers ‘cross
your palm? Can you know what
it is, the art, the aching
depth from which that
soft light shines?

Perhaps it is not touchable. Perhaps
the light is liquid, flows
away at slightest hint of precious
contact it so craves.


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