I just watched Lord of the rings, again;
I’m certain I’ve missed my calling as an Elf.
Twirling leaves, swaying, falling.
Flowing gowns, floating on air.
Softness.
Romance.
Light and trees.
I’m certain I’ve missed my calling as an Elf.
Oh well.
There’s always next time.
Sweet aching quiet.
Soft night, curled up beside me.
I know you.
I know your fragile whispers, well.
It would be okay,
I believe,
If you were to make a wish
and put it in your pocket.
It would be okay,
especially so,
if the wish was sweet.
For a wish made carefully
is often much sweeter
if forgotten
(in a pocket)
and found
somewhere along the drifting line
of life.
Somewhere lovely,
of course.
Somewhere really quite lovely,
I would think.
How lovely.
The wind of peace.
Here.
Now.
My
how lovely.
Good morning, sun.
And river.
Flowers and trees.
Happy day to you, wind,
and the bird song you sweep over mountains.
(Good morning, birds, and mountains, too.)
I will let you be, this day of life.
I will let you all be as you will,
and I will call you
lovely.
The lonely soul
is a beauty.
She is quiet,
so quiet
as she whispers her way
through the noise,
through the dark,
through the rain.
Sing a sweet song to her.
Call to her
and she shall hand you
a soft and thoughtful dream.
Hold my heart, dear music.
Let me float in the clouds,
on the sweetest of tunes;
let me hold this feeling, still,
while the moon wraps around me.
Sing it again, sweet Angel.
Evermore is the breath
of this beautiful, beautiful song.
It is a beautiful thing
to know love.
To feel it
burning,
aching,
glowing;
how I have known love
is as small as an hour born
of its grand, magnificent day.
I have loved in many ways.
Is there a garden I am yet to find?
A moment still to spring
upon the delicate plough of yesterday?
I am certain there is more to come.
I shall wait for it by the gate
where the red roses wither
and the daffodils wake
in sweet tufts
of two.
I see the world,
and I know it has been named
by those who came before me.
Who have I become
(or not become)
because of what they have shown me?
Voices claiming to guide are often sour
to my ears.
The world is alive,
delicate,
beautiful,
when my gypsy heart flies
free.
I see the world.
I name it for myself.
What colour shall I paint my sky?
Soft-pink and grey:
clouds of spun sugar,
sweet dreams that drift me to life?
Bring me a cool breath of clarity.
Bring me a little light,
and I will shine it, wherever I may go.
Though the roads may crumble
and darken
and fade,
I will have my little light.
I will have my sweet dreamy sky.
