The touch of a king
would condescend to heal;
if one was touched
one hundred times,
one would turn into a princess.
If you had loved
so dearly, the beloved:
the early sky, a dark jewel
in domes of foreign temples.
Their hands clasped,
knees tightly bent,
a burning sword
thrust between
the mind and soul;
and the deepened heart
will arise in the splendor
of modesty.
One million children
stand at the gates
of their straw village,
asking to be let through:
to where the golden bird
welcomes dawn,
the translucent orb of sun-star
crossing the sky
from morning to sunset;
I tend my mantra of gardens
just before dusk…
The glass of time, so fragile,
and cloven antelope hooves
upon the sand:
ghosts meant to clothe despair with
purity, the oils of acacia
and eucalyptus.
Glassy water
in the riverbed, too dry;
the speaking of the raven,
and unheard silence:
my memorized word
so clear and vibrant—
to a diseased room.
What enchantment
shall I break to heal you?
O ebony soul, caught within
the prisons of deformity
and the sepulcher
of infertility and pain:
Peace.
The kiss of wisdom
is a touch piece,
and the dying,
healed do ascend.
~~~~~~
A gift from our country to yours: a heritage linked like stained glass...
To the monarch deep in thought.
O Canada,
Emily
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