Youthful beauty of an elevating butterfly
Writes a departing ode to the long past,
To her previous self, painting smiles to last,
And as she steps into the space among stars,
She realises the beauty in her freedom,
Blessed I am to see her evolutionary steps,
A natural phenomenon for the unique nobility,
A queen to all her close soul friends – to me,
And I ask for her throne, to stand firm next to,
As she tries to find her crown in colourful books.
As an emotional being holding onto a pen,
I might transcribe earthquakes to show
My inner battles against the conflicts of Man,
Or dig deeper and release waters of life
To resurrect many unnamed forlorn souls,
An Eastern voice within starts to resonate.
Upon a riverbank, the little birds chirp,
One might leap its warmth onto another,
A celestial songwriter elevates the two,
And a new birdsong is sung for us all,
On the Eastern months of a short year,
The little things that make us more of us.
And tonight I was captivated by a song,
Asian nature dispersing into a constellation,
Knocking on the doors of my heartbeat,
The only faint drums rapidly progressing,
And as I approach this ancient mountain,
I start sending you warmth with my heavens.
I dig into the graves of the butterflies –
Once soaring over the habitats of men
To share a dancing ritual in a ceremony –
And I find the final jigsaw puzzle piece,
Puzzling my peaceful self as I unearth the truth,
Concrete cremating our buried Mother Nature.
Lift off and receive a masterful emotion,
Eastern birdsongs carved on this postcard,
Delivered to establish an emotional thread,
Shortening every bit of distance between us,
And giving part of us for the other to hold on,
So here you go my soulfriend, here you go.
The Eastern gates of Her Majesty,
Knock on and move towards her,
Mother nature in her wedding dress,
Up into the whispering mountains,
And along river-nourished trees,
Eastern songs transcribed over here.
And yearning for a hidden whisper,
Warmth from the Northern Lights,
Trapped under Eastern blankets,
Rainy shivers driving me south,
But if I listen closely I would hear,
Your voice in letters of a postcard.