Saturday, September 15, 2012

Children of whispers

God,
if you were to gift me a child,
don't let her be born 
from the quiet of the sea.
Don't make her 
run deep and silent
with the crash of waves 
only coming in a passing storm.
Make her a brook, a stream.
Running and gurgling under
dancing sun rays golden.
Make her sing with abandon.
Make her noise, make her din.
Make her foolish, let her sin.
Make not the purity of reason
run incessantly through
her peacock blue veins.
Don't make her quiet dew drops
that fall unnoticed into the night
and lie like silent pearls
on the world's naked body.
Make her rain and thunder.
And wind and tempest.
Raging through the sky with
freedom as stark as lightning bolts.
Let her speak her mind.
Put no chains, build no walls
around my child.
For the children of whispers
might find their place in a poem.
But they never become a song.