In all past history
There has always been reason
To add spice to fish
And soups indefinitely season
In all parted mists I see
Shadows now leaving
Trails behind them of meaning
A fine line to feed ends
But should the dish be raw
Or served in pots too hot
Would the spirits burn
Or like cold foot they rot
The fire in their hearts
The underlying carters
But a part of parts
For starters |