Crimson hope smears the still curtain of the worlds;
Larks slice the silence hovering by the brooding clouds;

Ridges of pain past traced on the firmament,
lingering fragrances scattered on silken hair,
saline tears dripping off the edges of the horizon:

I hear more in your frozen gaze.
Your heart pulsing to the rhythm of a new dawn;

But the discord, the occasional discord.
Why does pain visit us?

A swirling vortex of colours:
At the center, a heart of bluish white;
This vortex called life;

You must die humiliated
carrying the unbearable burden of love
wearing a crown of bristling pride
nailed across the twilight sky,
and hung for three nights;
Before resurrection
into a body of love.

A sink, yes, a salvaged sink.
It is on display.

After your pride has been flushed down
a line intersects a plane
and becomes a dot.

Change your view to spot it.

A clear body of water. Ripples on the surface,
by the last rain. An emergent sun, out of the
brooding clouds in the skies.
A hundred of them
on the waving waters.