Picture: States of Mind: Those Who Go by Umberto Boccioni
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Like a drop of rain
On my lips, cold fingertips
Touch the wind, as solid as sand,
Pouring through my hand.
Unknowing the known
Through unspoken words,
Unthought ideas:
No entry to translate.
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Give me a smile today,
Just because you can.
You’re rich,
You own incommensurable wealth,
Energy, love:
Pneuma flowing through you.
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Perfect vocation,
Free from the chains of expectation.
You’re rich,
Hands cupped at the source,
It’s free,
Of course.
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Herons