The Cord Is In His Hands
fly little kite-fly
fly higher than ancient cedars
reach the pinnacle of babel
but let not the thought of the cord slip your intelligence
reach mountain peaks where from there even a Goliath is a David
and fantasies are reality like the soil underneath but remember
you are but a shape-a kite
spread your vertex and rest in the shoulders of the gentle blowing winds:
float from heights of eagles where the aroma of the blue sky in no more a mystery
but do not forget-you are but a kite held by a cord in his hand
indulge the satisfying feeling of resting in the bosom of the stars
high above where your many great colors match that of a rainbow and
no one can tell what is which. But when you are there remember
your limit lies in the palm of the cord in his hands
human life is but a kite-nothing more than just a flying paper
how far
how further
how wild you go is the secretes of the cord in his hand
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