There are two parts to existence:
being alive
and
knowing it.
In the dream
the fire
was protected
by the lion
and a mare.
Once, she burned
her hand in hot oil
with a scar
in the shape
of a butterfly.
Some things no one
else will understand.
We are going blind.
We are senseless.
What lion roars like
a father? Whose voice
neighs like a mother?
Who ignited all
the pretty butterflies?
