Show me an adult and I’ll show you a child who forgot the joy of living.
Joy like cowering tongues
Woven around embers cannot be grasped or Directed, snuffed into smoke
At the cold touch of disection.
So dear child, clear a space – small and personal in this damp world.
And against all jeers feed and feed
Tenderly, patiently, innocently
So that while outside a howling gail mourns, Inside a hearth burns joyfully in the night.
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