same texture of breath

everywhere, with everybody

the transport of air

or release of carbon dioxide

survival has a pattern


yellow is not the  color for few

while red blood for others

nothing is hidden

nothing was, for the scultpor

of  the universe

the sprouting of thoughts

the trajectory of subtle ego,

hatred , those clandestine intents

selfish in flavor

even non-conversion of thoughts

to actions is no yardstick to qualify

vacuum cleaning with tools

of cosmetic propaganda

is not going to absolve

the pristine soul does not know

the complications professed.

nothing like utopian

oneness has a new address

in love

compassion is the new etiquette

of  the town

for the union not far away












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