The problem of knowing what is what
Is everything is everything, and nothing but
The birds in the tree, for you they do sing
As do the angels, you so dearly bring
Let your words land upon everything
While you ask back for nothing
That we may again go back to nothing
That is made up, of everything
Indeed, I am in love with your word, since they came to light
To partake, in joy and kindness, brings nothing but delight
I'll give it my all, and to all it I'll give
To death as we fall, with still hope yet to live
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