Love is not a lightning storm,
But a delicate, brittle flower on the crest of a far away mount.
It must have it's moments in the free sunlight
And also in the shadow of the understanding and low hanging cloud.
From time to time it must be whispered to
About it's once and future beauty
And about how a lonesome drought can be a blessing.
But most of all
It must know that when it's first petal falls,
Will that moment fail to show an abscence of my eternal love.
And all I ask is that you let your rain run down from that mountain
And upon me.
So that I might feel your pain,
Delight in your delights,
And suffer in your sorrows.
Because I am the mountain on which you grow.
And I am the wind that will never blow cold.

For as much as I have tried to survive the wilderness,
It has also tried to survive me.
Because I have trampled over the oceans and forests,
I have lost the privilege of the tree.
No air is there left to fill my lungs,
I now breathe in only nightmares.
No longer are there fish in the stream for my belly.
I simply eat whatever I dare.
I have robbed the woods of their sweet pine smell,
Replaced with only the scent of death.
Our children grow weak and sickly these days;
Their laughter is happiness bereft.
My ancestry was paid no mind,
I simply carried on with my plight.
To Christianize this land,
To bind the wild man,
I was blind to God's true light.

Let not love blind thine eyes,
Sheath the heart,
And fickle the mind,
For these are the cruelties of mankind,
To live without and leave behind.

Love let not the ties that bind,
Break with but the strength of twine,
Nor gain false hope or discern the mind,
To save the soul or be lost for it's time.