Rejected by whom, which part of ours,
and also accepted by which nurturing part?
Inner, warm cradle of love – rich, black soil,
feeding us via life-giving arcs of light, a dome.

Children of light, children of the universe,
children of our parents and great-grandparents,
descendants of a set of ideas, certain forks of the road,
mutually split, we and ourselves, also lampposts to hold.

Go deeper, stride nicer, soft belly, hope to descend much lighter,
ascend more often, go for an inner cheer quite frequent;
caress finer, act out much more uncovered, intimate;
reach out, interact, and from there find a way back to your crazy self.

Detective work, feel out, boobs and ideas,
needlessness, solutionlessness and wholeness,
great flavours of food, openness, pointiness and heartfulness –
and rest in peace my friend, regardless.