The lover only recognizes love,
Our masks all feel uncomfortable,
We cling to the theory of the hero
Because there is no I
But of course there's nothing else:
The consciousness disguised
As identifiable,
It seems to become,
Longs to belong,
Magnetizes foreign objects
Yet it has nothing for the swaying of the trees,
It cannot be the light on the leaves,
The salt in the breeze
Though of course it always is.
