Just delicate needles, the light,
in an endless night.

Never doubt that the Sower is just;

despite the young rain of tears, so delicate,

that fall on the thistle head’s drowsing needles.

When pricked, slowly bend your hands away like the

Sunflower or the chrysanthemum bending to the light.

Open your heart, but do not allow the evil to come in.

There will be calm hands there, and an

eternally comforting sleep there, and there will be endless

seeds of fire bursting in the night.