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“When I wake up I am love.”
“But don’t you aspire to anything?”
“I am more interested in profound silence,
Though my “interest” is much like a bird in flight.”
“You seem destined for misinterpretation.”
“That’s okay. In fact, everything that happens is okay.”
“Doesn’t the world necessitate moral judgment?”
“Where is your perception? Let go of everything,  
Though when you wake up make sure you are love.”

“No one understands you!”
“You are a precious jewel flashing colors directly at me.”
“I don’t follow you. I’ve never followed you.”
“You should. I’m the leader.”

Walking away, one of them ponders in front of the broad silver sea:

I don’t know what to do with my love
So it spreads out like a map 
Hitting plateaus and dunes and flatlands and swamps
And God-knows-what-else and what do monks
Do when they live with their family
And drink beer…
When do they make time to pray?
When does writing becomes the disease?
When do angels stop whispering to you?

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