Small Chieftans disappearing into the Andean stream
Walking softly through the French parade
Dreaming about spring
Rejoicing in fields of Jesus colored wheat
Hair fading into the grasses
Drinking blood that tastes suspiciously like wine
Every evening the illusion and the little hearts made of felt
Inflate themselves
and the farm animals shuffle about looking for sex
A million lemmings march off the launching at Niagra Falls
We don't know where we're going
We know where we've been
That place is the same
That's just the same place
There is no negative or positive in the beyond
In the secrets of the beyond
Not the tai ji But the wu ji
Everything is one at the source
What comes
Cannot not come
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