Every wound opens with a cry of pain.
We hear it. We listen.
Over and over again we hear it.
Every flower opens in quietness,
in the stillness of the moon.
Why do we only hear the cries of pain?
Why don't we listen to the voice of flowers?
Don't you know that whenever
a wound opens, somewhere else
a flower is blossoming in silence,
And for every wound,
there are ten thousand flowers?
Don't worry. Don't worry.
Just listen. And then go,
when the moon is full, go outside