At
the well of waters proceeds the virtuous one.
I
see the immaculate beam of truth in the lamp of her soul,
The
delight of perfumery uniting mind and matter’s whole.
There,
by the fallen pitcher
Her
eyes search for simplicity in the distant cloud.
Beneath
it all, the patterns of embroidery she works on
Loosens
and then reconnects
With
the heartbeat that is her dream’s pulse.
In
her I see patience among rowdy wills.
Her
era required a new kind of rose,
Pursuit
of gold, no excuse for bronze.
But
in her eyes I see a gaze
At the quiet splendor of the hills
At
the vision beyond the clear horizon.
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