Whispers are windows to the hearts desire
heard in the softest of sibilances
Something in the air, Moves
her eyes askance, her cheeks aflame
those self taught warblers trilled their song,
Golden rushes and white peonies
dressed in silks and taken astride

      The plains are a killing field
flooded in pain and drained in sorrow,
a miasma of sloth, a quicksand of thought

      Be where they came,
their cadenced step a brutal scar,
palpitating on My bosom

Gaia will heed and waves
lapped at her feet,
awash again as , once before,
the offerings flooding her psyche

those who opened the top and feasted,
and who are those who fled on foot,
on air and cloud,
See naught but an empty bowl
      denuded and defiled
He will make whole again, ravel the strain of her mind

      Be gone again, harbingers of the soul
He is not yet Come and she is still His,
till the song dies on the wind

And then the fires will burn Eternal
as They merge to One

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