The curls, Mother,
they get more troubled each day.
The black quietly fades into stranger grey.
A whisper evades….
Prayer as a melody:
a wordless melody of the aching heart,
escapes into infinite pastures of the gods.
The throes of longing were always,
That Glory of White, dazzling,
as water crystals in the summer sun;
Whoever said it’d ever be easy!?
Whoever did, a fool in vain was one!