If these fingers touched ink,
let what flows be
untainted and true;
unsmeared and sure.
If these hands mould clay,
let what is made be sturdy.
Be uncracked,
unblemished
and smooth like porcelain.
If this body pivots upon legs,
let it stand upright and tall.
So no wind could fell it down.
But should it topple,
let no earth will it shatter.
If this mind invites another,
let no thought nor idea
adulterate its own...
For its ways may wind
and meander,
but it is obstinate.
If this heart still beats,
no matter how faint...
Let its rhythm be steady
and unrelenting.
So it might echo
through long days
and moonless nights
to find others like it.
Then,
I may not feel so alone.
