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i thought i knew what love was.

until now,
there then,
we define as past,
we look at,


it was.

Well maybe. I could see things differently. Things could all look
a heck of a lot different than they do.
Things don't have to seem this way at all.
Things are this way, well; because the breeze blew them this way,
no other reason.

Or a reason that makes as much sense to me.

I could be this.
I could be that.

I could have this.
I could have that.

Do I need to know the reason?
Does the reason I am in this particular place

I could be here.
I could be somewhere else.

Like this.
Like that.

What does it matter?
What is the difference?

Am I not still me, myself;
who I am, the root heart of my existence,
whatever, wherever, however, whenever
it is.

Going On?

i thought i knew what love was.

leaving no stone unturned
the bamboo shadow sweeps
the court yard, with great ado
rousing not a single
mote of dust

it's always the "me"entity,
which needs to place a name
against the term "who"

if the ocean is all,
can a dew
drop ever drop

can there be
a dew drop,
as a dewdrop, at all?

I do no thing;
I go no where;

and yet,
am I not

I feel this fits here - author unknown