If wishes could be gifts
despatched by cosmic courier,
you would not be receiving
words and lines, but an epiphany:
mind contemplating inner shrines
as stars are born of nebulae,
an unimagined joy becoming
wellspring of heart's radiance,
a secret sign that you are not alone,
that candles flicker for you, always,
somewhere in the gloom,
as hope that cannot be extinguished,
proof of the divine.
Just so, a virtuoso plays
a violin to reclaim the void,
an aura flows from Richter
at the keyboard in a darkened room.
Violin in the Void
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105021300399
Свидетельство о публикации №105021300399
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