Àtòrì (the switch)

Every storm is born of calm
To each hurricane its sunny eye,
Every shadow’s made by light
And to each sorrow its sort of charm.

Every pleasure carries its dose of pain
Every treasure its loss in gain
Trust is father to betrayal
Survival, child of paranoia.

The moon fulfils herself
Growing for death, and again
The heart outstrips itself
Pumping its days away.

Without sacrifice freedom is pithless,
Bereft of justice wrath is mere pretence,
Missing the thumb, chief among fingers
The hand’s grip becomes a lost river.