My roses are blooming, my yellow roses,
and a child is dying of hunger
or disease or a gunshot or grief
and someone is laughing and someone is crying
and someone is lifting a cup, a star
is exploding, a heart
is breaking, the wind is blowing
over a desert, over a forest, over the sea,
and it is morning and it is evening
and it is the first day and the last
and every moment somewhere
the Host is being raised
in the air,
in the air, in the air.
—-