A word is not enough,
Unspoken, unwritten is she.
Unspoken, unwritten is she.
A noble deed born,
Undone, done, reborn.
A seed, a flower, a mother,
Blooming, withering, budding again.
A wind, a tree, an ocean
Blowing, growing, burdening,
Again and again.
Her eyes contain the universe,
In which is my small world,
Which I try to capture
With my small words...
In which my love
Is born, blows, blooms, grows, and with
Her each unspoken word,
It burdens itself.
Is born, blows, blooms, grows, and with
Her each unspoken word,
It burdens itself.
For my words can't carry the weight
Of this entire poem.
This feeble poem on a
Poetry in motion, known better as the seed of the flower that becomes a tree, which burdens the ocean in parts.
My cinnamom, my humble pride.
