Who taught her to chime like that,
I wonder.
Was it the whispering of someone close
Was it a story untold, a memoir.
A Confession. A sigh.
Remnant of a pre existent.
Was it the first giggle of a baby unborn
Babbling of its escapades ahead.
Hymns of hope or longings for love.
A Soothing zephyr, lullabying to dream.
What is she, I wonder.
Was she a wind spirit,
An artist, Swaying wild,
Unattached. Bewitched .
Relishing her first stage.
Was she a sculpture,
A shard of lightning bolt,
An echo of a power allured,
Seized off her sister, the thunder.
Was she a creator, A visionary,
Molding keys of a piano
From beams of day
and gleams of dusk.
Or Was she a writer,
weaving poetry
with endless times.
The poesy of ethereal space.
What on earth, is she, I wonder.
Was she an open prayer,
A premonition
Was she a prophecy!
Who could taught her,
To chime like that!
And To my wonder; however broken,
she sounded the same, always.
She is indeed, an insane wonder.
©P.K.S.V
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