Cloud to cloud he watched, day to day he was, yet...was he really anything? A story then, a story now...inaccurate in all its parts. Even, writ by one who loved him well.
So bless us, that we are...but what we are? What ever were or are we then? What, of we weaved, and who are we...to weave this dream...to be at all?
Namaste
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: the face of almustafa, by Kahlil Gibran
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