She was standing in the rain
Crying and singing songs against this pain
She was dancing in this terrible wind
Like a butterfly that just took the form of a woman
With thunder in her voice and lightning in her eyes
She was giving this world all her love.
(She said, "All your poems are sad."
She never wrote a poem.
She never tried to survive as an artist.
Against the storms the vision comes in and lends
beauty to this life.
Sadness is part of all this.
Some of us are privileged in life and some by death.
The moment arrives when the dancer lays down her body
in the storm and makes way for the next dancer.
Beauty isn't just in the work but in the working.)
Inside this pebble of rain I see her dancing on the mountain.
She stands as an anthem of beauty and sorrow.
Her hair is a portrait of the wind.
Her spirit is a song that has been let out of its cultural
prison.
She stands inside this wind and dreams a world beyond all the
sadness left behind her.
The rain embraces her body and leaves her pure before the sky.
Milk is the fruit of birth.
Beauty is the fruit of seeing beyond all this suffering.
Her skies are filled with clouds, sunshine, moon glow,
star milk, and wings.
Ho!
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