Smoke Songs

The evening rolls in hissing like an old steam engine. Its belly full of blackness, its mouth spewing impenetrable fog. Like a warm cloak I heard someone say. Yes, truly. Like a warm cloak which erases features and distinctions makes everything look the same. The ancient cloud from within which eveything is possible and nothing stays the same. Nothing is better and nothing worse. No distinctions and no separations. If we are all just one, isn't it possible we're just empty deep inside ? Empty like instruments ? The deepest human resonances are sound. The oldest human visions are smoke. So light a fire, inside or outside. Sing a song . We're one. I'll hear you.