Written by Leah Marut
Who am I to call this world a failed testament
when there exists golden laughter, bubbling
like a brook of life? Are we to forget
there is a piece of the sun
in every smile and streams of stars
coursing through our veins? Moonlight reaches
for our palms in a gentle embrace, a rendezvous
between the galaxy and her lost
child, and we say we are forgotten? Auroras
have stretched across the night to light the way
and if we looked closer, we could see them flicker
in our eyes. Lightning lives in our minds and some say
we have wings, if only we could remember
how to fly, yet we are content for now as long as
summer words still pass between our lips and our heartbeats
press close. I am convinced of the magic hidden
in our spilled ink and swirling paint, of the comfort woven
through forgotten melodies— no, I have not given up
yet, not while the symphony of the spring rain
still plays for ears willing to listen. Such beauty of our small living
surely cannot be of our world; oh, it is far better suited for the twilight.