When wrapped in words calm
Unable to exist in clamour [violence]

The bringing of loving hands in accepting hands, close

Wealth !

The Spirit True blew upon strings of pain
It could not rain yet

Pain yields to itself, oft……

To let the peacock get drenched with its comrade
Make the placid stream, be resplendent in its beckoning sun
The wealth of knowing what it is to live again………….

Mates are never able to be apart
A, Spirit True does beckon its own!