Like gently leaning back onto a bench of stone
Is this finding, lovely feeling of a new throne.
To sit in the place where everything, anything
Can happen is my desire, a constant drone.
Maybe worry can become butterfly, hanging
Laborless in the near air, not worming the bone.
Probably impossible to keep up this rest,
At least as such. Parasite concept saps the tone.
Real freedom must be in the so-lovely middle,
Unbound by beginning and ending, always home.
The intimacy of this is universal,
Unloseable. Exile is dropping being thrown.
Whatever Nicola’s lies, do not believe, but
Overleap them to where we are never alone.