Oh to not break any thing -
Then would birds sing!
But then would there be no room,
No womb
From which birds spring.
To and fro they bring
The balm and the sting -
The tomb
Is the womb
To which the hurt cling.
Ding a ling! ding a ling!
What have you got, what do you bring?
What comes from your catacomb,
Oh loom
Of Spring?
I am the broken thing
That won’t ring
Yet will loom
With an unsounded boom
Until we take wing.
we are all broken things
we are all in the tomb
but Light comes as spring
for “Spring is not a season,
it is the heart of Amida Nyorai’
The womb, the lotus bud,
nurtured in Light,as a bird
in it’s safe, precious egg.
we are all broken things,
but we are all in the womb.