When we are not equal, we lose each other,
we lose the winged self that once carried us
into orchards of becoming,
into the fire of blossoms,
where petals spoke
and seasons burned like prayer.
When we are not equal, we are alone.
No longer balance,
no longer breath answering breath,
no longer twin flames
in the same unseen lantern.
No longer beautiful.
No longer whole.
No longer one song.
When we are not equal, the world leans away from God,
and balance falls inward,
fractured in the marrow of the heart.
We search for it inside everything,
and lose ourselves in the looking.
When we are not equal, we forget a beloved part
in the corridors of the soul,
a secret we pursue through mirrors,
a name creation keeps whispering in dust and wind.
For it, we rebuild the world each dawn.
When we are not equal,
in every rose-garden,
in the return-flight of painted petals,
in the bowing of memory,
on the sails of wind,
in the meadow of canary-song,
in every street where Being births itself again,
we run, forever, with a white net in our hands,
hunting the one thing we were made of:
our own lost butterfly.
