Many a phrase, I will never say again
How fruitful are the crickets
In the evening, the darkness itself
Speaks a Billion Suns
How lovely, is the Thunder’s tongue
That cannot spell lightning
But forgives the fact
For many choirs of the winds
That dance along the Tide’s tail
Breaking in bright mornings
Along the sleeping shores
Many a phrase, I will never push
With joy, out from my humble mouth
With a hush of English so deep
Romance is fiction, poetry does recall –
How fruitful the silence of the sun
That warms not by sound, but by waves
To spell slower glory would be to die.
Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Flowers-in-December-VII-412112014
Wuji Seshat 