I don't know what to say, but it'll flow
and vibrate and shatter the cold air here
with the songs of spirit, the love below
and above and around; the truth is near:
It approaches, every time I see hope
or trust, or thanks, in the eyes of those I've
touched in some way with my compassion's scope,
from youthful to wise, the dead and alive:
And even those who don't see my soul's aim,
and misread or even attempt to thwart
me, only prove the point in this life's game,
which, like headless sculptures, is still just art:
I stand on ripples of love and hunger;
Why scratch the itch? I'm not getting younger.

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