In the

Sometimes simplicity rises
like a blossom of fire
the white silk of your own skin.
You were there in the beginning
you heard
the story, you heard the merciless
and tender words telling you where you had
to go.
Exile is never easy and the journey
itself leaves a bitter taste.
But then,
when you heard that voice, you had to go.
You couldn’t sit by
the fire, you couldn’t live
so close to the live flame of that
you had to go out in the world and make it your own
so you
could come back with
that flame in your voice, saying listen…
warmth, this unbearable light, this fearful love…
It is all here, it is all

~ David Whyte ~

(Fire in the

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