Number 6

Parted from our one and only idol, blood drips from every song we sing. From the millstone of the spinning heavens rose the cry of our shattered grain. The earth itself lies ruined and beside itself from the sound of our lover's lament. In the ocean of existence, like a pearl, our water and seed were complete within us. We broke free of ourselves, and the height of the sky became our nest. The thorns and dry twigs of our nest throw a hundred taunts at tulip and rose. By the fortune of love we are kings; sorrow is our army, the heart our treasury. Granite grief and silken anguish are the carpet at our threshold. The healing heavens writhe in on themselves at our reckless, self-forgetting laughter.