My sorrow
is a reflection
of my fear,
a sensation
of frustration
touching
our bare skin.

Its sensibility
is like a river
whose clarity
must prevail
in order to exist
because if not,
just like the river
I will slowly die
until the only thing left
is the foul odor of rage
in the once clear water.

Yet, if I feel
that I am already
in the process of
decomposing…

Don’t panic, don’t fall
into the same frustration
that caught my spirit
in sorrow initially.

Just sit.

Smell,
although at first
it might seem inevitable
to judge it as sickening.

Don’t be fooled.
In judging others,
I judge myself.
There is no disease.

The river
can purify itself
instantly
if at its source
we stop throwing
dead animals.

Sit as if all
were patience,
and calmly
find the source.

Don’t get angry
at the aspect of myself
that contaminates;
instead teach
with inner awareness
to be pure as the river
that is no more fear,
only love to be.