A flare between ancestors, conceived in a world, as it begins to struggle. To expand its lungs, the fear of waiting for air, for sadness, as the efforts of love disperse in these ruins. Before the towers, we walked the earth, without road or map. We must choose our step before closing this gate, as the psychic roots of every becoming lay in our stride.
Words picked and rearranged with my own from The Rag and Bone Shop Of The Heart.
Image by: Oystein Sture Aspelund