I am a fragment on the white clouds
Of Apollo, Vishnu see himself in me
I am the Autumn silver of first snow
Washed on my morning face
I am the stubborn silence that accompanies
Too much happiness, the foreign
Country love. I am the last request
Of a golden heart gladdened to be poor
That the purity persists despite that
With a prayer book full of lyrics
Sutras of the melted precipice of self
I am a fragment of all that was once divine
Set in empty volumes of diamond flesh
I am the end of an invisible dynasty
Poetry dies with me, as a window
To the gray-maned mythology of italics
Where words became monuments of Autumn herself.
Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/she-409922245
Wuji Seshat 