If you are quiet, you can hear,
Astounding things in the empty meadow.
From ancient sounds and lullabies to distant
screams from anguished past,
The question still remains, How do I separate me from myself?
From out those innards of everyone
Come past thoughts that key ego’s destiny
That image of myself, that longing for more, that
Timely instance of agony
Begs to question, How do I separate me from myself?
That extended hand is not mine, but that which extends it is;
those fingers are not mine, but that which holds yours in them is.
And alas I stand but all alone, and ask my Lord a simple theme,
“Dear God within me guide this thing,
And tell, please tell, How do I separate me from myself?”