Shall I?
Shall I call it humour that I seem to think that I have problems based on my minds rumours?
Shall I call it beauty that behind every minuscule apparently insignificant appearance lies your infinity?
Shall I call it grace that behind each pain appears your radiant face?
Shall I call it peace that in my being you reverberate endlessly?
Shall I call it love that I appear as you, in you through you, yet I seem to want more of you?
Shall I call it passion that you burn like flame for nothing other than yourself?
Shall I call it knowledge that you appear as insight and disappear all traces of ignorance?
What shall I say of my life that depends anxiously for a tug from you?
What shall I call you oh beloved who sings praises for yourself with such ease?
What shall I say for such joy that you bring with every whisper?
I know you are answering these questions silently.
In every look from every eye.
In every gesture from every passer by.
