A rod of iron twists, it bends, it breaks,

It rusts, it greens, it browns, it changes,

Yet every bit of metal still remains -

How so it's not with life, with consciousness,

With the red of love and hate, with sorrow, passion -

All these can exist in inconceivable multiplicity.

So, feelings bend, and space does not, souls twist

Inside and out, they tangle, we laugh and burn

When the orange iron bends, we cry for it,

And when the blue sky turns to ash we suffer,

For we, the immaterial selves, we are true motion

Amidst the phantom change of the physical.