The World of Myth Magazine

Gathering all the pain in my fist
I crushed it into buds of mist,
Then gazing at the sun, my fingers held a-splay
Like flakes made-out of snow, the pain had gone away

I held my palms together like a tower
A prayer for the circle of my daily hour,
Then looking at myself anew
I asked myself: well, who is who?

I could not know the truth back then
I couldn't see the wind through the glen,
Even now I don't know it and grapple:
Who tempted whom – and then who bit the apple.

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