A sweet summer breeze
and a sip of cool tea.
Plans lay resting,
rocking on knees.
A cold thunderbolt
sets everything aflame.
Sideswiped fortune,
screaming of names.
To what foreign land
has the Hand retreated?
Thought sleeping in palm,
to wake, cover fleeted.
Song lifts to feared clouds
and praise is washed away.
Hand hears and comforts all
though the rain long-term stays.
No comments:
Post a Comment