In Tribute: Thich Nhat Hanh

frozen in time. like wintry cubs. at tears with joy, nay, happiness. thoughts I saw on paper—moonlit, beige-violet aura, energies as laws. Love is genus, back to earth, captive in winds, free in chains. in truth, we dream of liberty, in scars, we sing at traumas, we try to whisper. the flying unicorn, the negligent florist, the diligent graduate.

a man was made sickly, pricing Love, as more than a person. the terrified reindeer, the foresight, an event similar to the spirit’s Diaspora.

—as it sung in his guts, grappling with death, one chuckle, one triumph—

death was outwitted, somber, sober soul, be at peace.

the summit is Love. the literature is soul. the value is humanity.

many will mourn. many more will rejoice. a soul has made peace with the beginning.

friends are possessed, he has fought the winds with grace, he has shepherd the novitiate.

hope was life, as it denied itself, for it had triumph in mind. family, friends, the mind has a hospice in energies.

Love is by the wrists, the cuffs, the freedom in the wilderness.

the mythical woman, the mystical womb, in which a son was born. born humble, born wise, born with freedom. the soul trembling sunshine, the hospitable red hart, the flying chi.