I look at white light with smoky lenses.
But smoke is not white. And the more I see smoke
The less I see white. And the sun is 93
Million miles away, it feeds the oak,
It lays a sheet of golden light
Across Lapland, it pings off a snowy slope,
And all I see is lies and smoke,
I am kept upright my my gyroscope,
And through the smoke I see the sun,
And its rays soothe my rigid mind,
Absolutely, what I see, absolutely, what I am,
Truth and kindness bright and twined.
Yaacov David Shulman