Sometimes in my dreams, a small child is rising up
like fire. That child is you, Ryan, you who have
come to us wrapped in the color of blood,
the color of life, the color of death.
For as long as you live,
your eyes will change like the weather
whenever we sing out your name, you
who heard us crying to you
across the darkness of the waters, you
who pulled yourself hand over hand into the light, you
who kept coming and coming, you
who crawled out of the wound of the world
to tell us you were the color of life
and the color of death
and that you were like no other.