I am a beast, born of the accuser, in love with the finest star. That one that provides direction, bless me, for I left the barn burning, I cannot follow the sliding path, the stained and easy past. No, it follows me—like a harpy, senseless and vengeful, bashing holes in weak walls. Guide me, from the template enraged even in its sleep—that rises behind me to crash against serenity—and boredom. You remind me, beautiful, that joy and misery are shared, and what is bad for one is bad for all, but tell me, how does one not recoil from the hateful? When shame incites from bad to worse, mirrors are broken and shards inserted in people’s eyes. Remind me, sweetheart, that sight is not needed to desire Brahman, and truth is a sense of direction. I scatter my grieving pieces through and through, and ask for transformation—for me, and the beasts who came before.