…I
see a dream, a young lady staid, as grave as luxuries. I think
to
ponder, en-art—a miracle, drifting through raptures. We shed
for
tears, to listen for teachers, for wisdom’s a grain. We rise to
sing
an anthem, a bit aloof, a felt-for love. I panic softly, to
witness
such beauty, a mother’s eyes. Life for hectic, to chisel
joys,
to practice Bhakti. We journey this
love, to feel for echoes,
to
pause on orange. All is for new, a country for old souls, to
stream
a legacy. We found a portrait, sketched with strangers,
to
recognize a face. How for her, a century behind, to love as
grandmothers?
We’re something vexed, to hear a voice, a vatic
aroma.
Love is mixed, a world of chaos, to hold a hand. I
scream
for now, to watch for motion, to feel
for spirits. It’s deep an arc,
to
color wildness, to thrive through glory. This is pulse, a story in ink,
published
to millions. It’s truly a life, to grind for sun, to tug a moon.
We
polish marble, a mosaic charm, to break for tablets. It’s more a
riddle,
to start anew, to re-consecrate love. I pass you wings, to see
you
fly, and paint for feathers. Its heart and soul, to study for safety,
as
born as a breeze. We soar with grit, a daughter’s name, to chant
through
storms; and more to love, something subtle, a trinket in a box.
