The Language Poem by Agatha Eliza

The river flows endlessly;
its rapid ripples
bathing the shores of these dry lands
caressing with the words
the flowers that blossom in our minds
the flowers of springs
the white, delicate flowers
multiplying the seeds
spreading on the meadows
a light of their own
splitting the darkness into halves,
further into quarters, moments
minutes, seconds told apart
from fleeting hours
of joy, sadness, exultation
epiphany, freezing emptiness and death.

Our world is limitless..so are
the words that pour
from the heart..like rain
in a desert, like an hymn that
summons the wandering souls
to its welcoming bosom-
we call it home.