A gift–to me from the ancestors.
My way of giving to others.
Not as the source,
But as a humble conduit.
I am minute,
A speck of something much larger.
Using the gentlest of touch
Or even none at all
Healing from the Divine passes.
Through the most mortal of hands.
Some call it evil,
The work of the devil,
But it is not, how could it be
When offered with love.
Perhaps its mystery scares them
Or perhaps it threatens their beliefs,
I do not know.
Such a strange twist of logic is this,
To dismiss something born of goodness
That can never harm.
If only all beliefs were as pure
And as in tune with nature as this.
Would not the world be a more peaceful, loving…
And less violent place.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~