The Poem that Saved the World
The shape of the letters
light the faces -
their serenity in no other
place than the realm above.
With a word that is water
and no distinction to movement -
the reader’s eyes relish in broken watches,
the sounds of what has been read wisping to the hand that gives.
Even the empty page
has threads of effulgence
that the moon cannot speak
for or against its blinding sight.
Bowing together as a leaf leans towards the sun -
who knows difference in reverence?
To feel contentment, we all sit
to empty our eyes of words, that we may see union in our faces.