If the mirror of your soul was paper
It would burn away to ash
Blowing in the wind on high
Then sometimes late by and by
After the world has swallowed
Whole of you to be regurgitated
Ash spit out as Mother Earth's dust
With a reflection one can trust
GOLD, SILVER, ILLUMINATING
Rain-drop-by-golly water inside
Will rise up stoic until fire hears
The rustling of the photographs of paper mirrors.
