Early Spring Sunday

We are the Stars



For we are the stars. For we sing.

For we sing with our light.

For we are birds made of fire.

For we spread our wings over the sky.

Our light is a voice.

We cut a road for the soul

for its journey through death.

For we face the hills with disdain.

This is the song of the stars.

Excerpts from a Passamaquoddy poem, which I found in Jan Garbarek's Rites CD