We stand on the ground
upon a turning page
brandishing like a banner in the wind.
Here in the branch of land
and the debris of its flipping leaves
and the page
that in its lines
absorbs the ink of our fate
the book that from the green ink of our phase
prints the unsettling song of its departures
with the words that
they seize hands to serenade
And to tune
the golden grove of our chests
when they burst in their love
and the white flutter of our wings
in the dove of our hearts
The graft like the rose's red sonnet of blooming!
Like the sonnet of colors when they surrender to your eyes!
and the worship of leaves
in temple of the stems!
Like the sonnet of sun ridge
on the hackle of our hands
Like the nest of lights on branches of our faith
Like the sonnet of borderless regions
and remote lands
The sonnet of reborn paths
and the womb of the passages
that is brimming of the rays of sunshine