...and the oxymoron
...continued from previous post
The morning breeze
flew into the window
and sang a melancholy
to the drowsy ears
She walked ahead
through spotless sunlight
searching the park
for her lost pieces.
Filtering her mind
from the pains of prudence
Clearing her paths
weeding out her agony
Cleansing herself
with episodes from past
Furnishing her steps
with the newness of future
She picks her broken pieces
to weave her new thread
her own new thread.
Wake my child
you have a new meaning
Wake my child
you have united yourself
Wake my child
you have gained your self
Wake my child
you have reasons to joy
Wake my child
the world is at your call
The moon rose
as the first chapter
of her serene solitude
played to its promising start.