The sweetness of scars,
full of pain-bursting –
I’m not nursing anymore.
Fur-tipped icebergs
have mercy for the kind.
Dressed as a spirit in
the blanket of the night.
As if the beginning
would never end.
And you, who still do not dream.
Wind-whipped and
saddened by the open view.
I say, let me love,
and let me live.
A Wandering Poet 