What will deliver us from the cold empty heaviness within our breasts?
The weightlessness with which the human spirit upwards soars, full to bursting with life,
The very next moment encounters the dark and dank and deathly,
The empty, shameful, lonely.
And the soul that one minute before would have sung endless praises to the Sun
Now sits, stammering, helpless, desperate, hurting, needy,
Ashamed and angry, grieved and afraid--
--As different as heavy, blood-tangy metal (without blood's warmth)
Is different from a rose in first bloom, opening outward.
Yet even the rose has thorns.
What, then? Is this our fate: does every joy have a sorrowful twin,
Every comfort a corresponding pain?
What response shall we make to the outraged heart,
Whose love is ravaged by shards of broken spirit cast from its beloved?
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