So long the words don't come through the storm
So long the essence of fire doesn't light the lamp
So long the symbol isn't struck by the strains of the road
So long the pattern isn't set by the incorporeal air
So long the joy isn't created out of chants from the day to day to life
So long renunciation isn't derived from arrangement of words–
all the time, oh the blank pages, I'll sit by you,
even at the graveyard and beyond,
I will sit by you, oh the blind pages,
until you are awake.


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