DIAGNOSIS & DISEASE
Nobody told me the truth of this precipice
And that the wood on which you walk gets slippery
And that this fall will break you, and make the pieces
Of your conflicted soul in rancorous turmoil
So I fell down from the high of my naivety
And the ground broke me, but did not kill me
Instead I lay there, remembering something once spoken
Get up when beaten down, so thatÂ
You may perhaps fall again.
And I collected the sharfs of a broken thing
Recognized to be my life contorted
Setting out for someone who could
Fix it, maybe
And I presented the ruined self
To the selfless guru, who I asked
Whether this still could be repaired
And she said: don't you know?
The only thing impossible
Is the thing we can't imagine
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