There is the breast that gives milk,
and that which doesn’t;
and then, there are both, which feed us sparingly.
Bravely, we’d walk on the water,
see wavy reflections
beneath our feet, our warped and rippled faces.
Thus, we ignore the storm,
feel still, calm waters,
blind to the splashing sea we’re drowning in.
We’d reach the other side,
the land of milk,
but all we have to drink is wind-tossed water.
The storm cannot be calmed
until it’s faced.
We see our faces blowing on the waves.
Bad ghosts blow hurricanes,
good ones blow breezes;
cast out the bad by letting in the good.
The good are our new heroes:
they’ll mend the mirrors,
and help us build new bridges we can cross.
The winds of rage will slow down to a calm.
We’ll cross the bridges, reach the other side,
and drink the milk of bliss and mutual love.