whose rival voice blurred the lines of our fate
but our own love alive filling the air—
o how it lands with such grace we create,
him or me or she—all being so fair;
and so fair are those who cannot but live
through the ache-pain of not having to give;
coming and going through days and waves,
a soreness with good gain of tone and staves—
and how only being true does it build—
that one forgets its source and calls her/him.
love, live, fly free and wherever you’re willed,
and so earn what you burn of desire and whim.
as the sun rises, its song, the day sings,
just as good hearts shine-out, spreading their wings.