It is very myself
That sees the
Etching of the World
And wants the one
With light and color
And shadow to appear
All those other colors
I know must be there.

Just at the Zenith of myself
Only for minutes
Light slips down the damp stone
And  a glass circle dazzles
From deep within
I cannot make a stopper for it
It is not myself
It is everything
That is outside.

The resistance of the World
Swallowed me whole
And ever chewed me
And spit me out
Isn’t it a truly World?
Shouldn’t it ought to sing?