The seamstress of the world could not thread the eye of the needle.
No thread is stong enough to mend
back together again.
In the ruin of fire, blood, and tears;
baby dolls lay in the waste of sour humanity,
somewhere in the world today.
May the warrior’s heart slip through space,
in the dead calm of darkness; landing on Planet SOS.
Here the thread found is King and Queen to all wordly man’ness things.
The needle threads on the way back down,
and a zillion phoenixs rise up.
playing, laughing, smiling.
(Peace to the Souls of Homs, Syria, and children around the world, caught in war)