Dangle, dangle, it all dissembles,
   all my threads, all the parts
   of my life here in the wilderness . . .

   as if the more I try to hold
   myself to one identity,
   the more I unravel and eclipse
   into other men, other souls . . .

   oh, it is not I who would think
   to go beyond the mortal threads
   of this flesh, of this soul, oh,
   it is some other function of the self.

   Round and round, we all tumble
   round the globe of our souls,
   we all spiral throughout
   the universe of souls,
   humble, humble . . .

   and the more we learn to let go,
   the more we conspire to dissemble,
   the more we choose to be at rest
   with the purpose of our souls.

   This is how it goes,
   this simple thought,
   this tiny glimpse
   that I usually forget

   then always have to think
   my way back.