A sudden breeze
as cold as a dead child's palm,
from the entrails of the ancient cemetery,
reaching for something.
A gush of water
sparkling like the eyes of a mother,
from histories hidden by poets,
searching for a child.
Winds and water streams.
What are they,
but ghosts of yesteryears
in search of a body?
Take my flesh and my vanity,
my grief and my mirth.
Take all these.
And give me your ever-flowing soul.
