We all need love and know not what to do with it.
Small storm that, like most everything is from the mountaintop.
Little need looking down,
But to wonder:
Why hide? What is hidden?
Under clouds, roofs;
Behind doors, masks,
Why hide what cannot be hidden?
What’s hidden is what kills, finally.
Whether to climb up the mountain
Or out of your kept self,
You need only cut a path—
Which is so simple you’ve got to love it.