Oh, the infinite sadness of ourselves.
There is nothing I would not do for you, brother.
Give me the package of your sorrow, sister.
Let me love you each
at no cost to yourselves.
My money?
Take it.
The cherished things of my heart,
divide them up.
There is nothing I want
except to lift your sadness,
make you smile.
I have no values, no creed, no ideology
to sweep the street with.
There is no altar I go to except stars,
and they are cold in my fingers,
like snowflakes.
It is only you my brethren,
my kin,
my tribal blood
that all the world has to give,
and it is not for sale,
not for trampling.
Man goes his way,
I will go mine,
the sea can stay in its basin,
the air can keep its perfume,
the words of the sages
can warm me from the fire,
but those I love are mine.
More than mine,
they are the chalice
that delivers to my lips
all that I live for,
my fidelity,
my oath,
heaven or hell,
without price,
the substance of my soul.